


Elephants

by saltsanford



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Agent Carolina/Vanessa Kimball, Blood and Injury, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Lemons, M/M, Past psychological trauma/mental breakdown, Reincarnation, RvB Big Bang, super background Grimmons and Chex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9856322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: So then, this:Wash always meets Tucker when it’s snowing.A love story, about coming to terms with your past, and learning to live in the now.





	1. Winter

_If the elephants have past lives_  
_Yet are destined to always remember_  
_It's no wonder how they scream_  
_Like you and I, they must have some temper_

-Elephants, Rachael Yamagata

* * *

 

Wash meets Tucker for the first time on Christmas Eve, with the snow falling thick and fast. 

He’s locked himself out of his apartment building, security door key no doubt buried beneath several inches of snow back in the parking lot of his job. The meager apartment awning is barely enough to huddle under, but he cups his hands around his eyes and peers into the lobby, hoping that someone is around to let him in. It doesn’t solve the problem of how he’s going to get into his _actual_ apartment, but one disaster at a time. The lobby is, of course, utterly deserted, and Wash is just starting to despair when—

“You too, huh?”

He turns to see one of the other tenants standing behind him, holding up an empty key ring and smiling brightly despite their joint predicament. “Guess this shitty weather is making us all a little stupid. No worries, I can get us in through the basement door and we’ll be home free. I’ve got a spare apartment key under my doormat.”

Wash thinks he should probably ask _why_ this man knows how to break into the apartment complex’s basement, but that blinding smile is making him feel slow and stupid. “That’s not safe,” he says, even as he moves to follow his neighbor. “A spare key. Under your doormat. Someone could break in.”

His neighbor turns to look Wash up and down over his shoulder, grinning. “You _worried_ about me?”

“I’m just saying,” Wash says. He’s a little breathless, which has everything to do with the cold and absolutely nothing to do with this man’s dimples. Nothing at all. “Someone could break in and kill you in your sleep.”

His neighbor whistles. “ _Wow._ Murder, huh? Cool. This how you open all conversations with strangers?”

“Only the cute ones,” Wash says, because he’s cold and tired and it’s Christmas Eve and he has no one waiting for him inside his apartment so who cares. The neighbor doesn’t have anyone waiting for him either, which is how Wash ends up bent over his kitchen table, their clothes leaving a messy trail from the door. Wash clutches at the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles turn white, moaning an endless stream of _oh god, oh god, oh god,_ because—

“I don’t—know—your name,” he finally pants out, then shivers as his neighbor drapes himself over Wash’s back, one hand on his hip, the other smoothing his hair back from Wash’s ear so he can press his lips there.

“ _Hmm,_ why? You want something to scream?”

“Yes,” Wash gasps, eyes rolling up into his head as his neighbor fucks him a little harder. “Yes, _god,_ yes, I do.”

“It’s Tucker,” he breathes. “What can I call _you_ besides ‘hot stuff?’”

“You can—call me—Wash,” he manages, and that’s the last coherent sentence he gets out, in favor of moaning Tucker’s name over and over and over until they both come all over the table and each other.

They have to get rid of the table eventually, because Wash can’t look at it without blushing and it’s hard enough trying to explain to their friends how they met. It’s even harder to figure out what to tell their kids about their first meeting, but Wash doesn’t regret it, not the sex on the table, or the way they’d collapsed onto it after, giggling like  teenagers and making their way through three bottles of wine—

_Wait._

Wait, no.

 _That’s_ not right.

Their first meeting was…. _was_ ….

Right. Wash _first_ meets Tucker at a college party during his sophomore year. He doesn’t know _why_ he came, he _hates_ these kinds of parties, but his friends had insisted he needed to get out and have some fun. It had been the exact opposite of fun, right up until the point where Tucker had sidled up to him with the world’s cheesiest pick-up line. That had been pretty fun, and so had the dance off Tucker had challenged him to, and the part where they snuck outside to make out against the fence with the snow falling soft around them was _definitely_ fun—

Although, _that’s_ not right, either.

When Wash sees Tucker for the first time, he’s lying flat on his back in the snow, bleeding from too many wounds to count and squinting at a soldier wearing aqua armor. He won’t see Tucker’s face until much later, but he knows that the smart-mouthed piece of work removing Wash’s armor is indeed Tucker. It’s cold, so _very_ cold, and Tucker is telling him to hurry up and help because—

No. That’s not the _first_ time.

The first time is…

Well. There are many firsts.

So then, _this_ :

Wash always meets Tucker when it’s snowing.

* * *

Wash wonders if the meteorologists in this town will ever get the weather forecast right.

There had been approximately a ten percent chance of snow today, and even then, it was only supposed to be a light dusting. There are currently _four_ inches of snow on the ground, with no signs of it stopping anytime soon. In hindsight, driving in this weather had been a pretty stupid idea, but Wash had been so determined to get home that he’d risked driving through the squall.

Now, standing in the middle of a snowbank and staring at his very stuck car, he wonders what the hell he was thinking.

Wash paws at the snow around his wheels, trying to dig out enough space for them to get traction. He’s dragged the cuffs of his leather jacket up around his hands since he doesn’t have gloves, but at this point, he can barely feel his fingers. The snow has long since soaked through his jacket, as well as his sneakers and the bottom of his jeans. With a muttered curse, Wash digs his cell phone out of his pocket with frozen fingers and—

And promptly watches as the screen goes dark.

“No,” he mutters. He shakes the phone frantically, as if _that’s_ going to do anything, and jabs at the power button. The screen remains black. “No no no no _no,_ come _on_ …”

There was nothing for it. He was going to have to spend the night in his car and hope that the weatherman had _also_ been incorrect about the subzero temperatures that were supposed to supposed to blow through tonight. He’s just turning back to his car when a pair of headlights cut through the darkness, the first that Wash has seen on this back road since he got his car stuck.

Wash steps off to the side, watching somewhat wearily as the car starts to slow down. The truck—of _course_ it’s a truck, with snow chains and all, which makes Wash feel even _more_ like an idiot—pulls up to a stop next to him, and the window rolls down. The driver is male, about Wash’s own age, and he arches an eyebrow at Wash, looking pointedly from him to his stranded Honda. “I mean, don’t make an effort to flag me down or anything.”

Wash fidgets a little, following the driver’s gaze. “My car is stuck,” he mutters.

“Dude, no _shit._ What were you thinking, cruising down Gulch Avenue in a snow squall with a car like that? You must not be from around here.”

Wash tries to muster up the energy to be offended, but he’s so cold that he can’t quite manage it and besides, the guy’s _right._ “I’m not, actually,” he admits. “Two towns over. Look, do you…do you have a phone I could borrow to call Triple A?”

“Wow,” says the driver. “A stuck car _and_ a dead phone. You’re really batting a thousand tonight, aren’t you?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s gonna take Triple A _hours_ to get here. What, you just planning on waiting in your _car?_ It’s freezing out!”

“Well, it’s not as if I had any other _options,_ ” says Wash, annoyed. He shivers as a blast of icy wind rips through the clearing, and the driver looks at him a little more closely.

“Dude, your lips are turning blue.” His gaze falls on Wash’s half-dug out tires. “Were you…trying to dig your car out with your _hands?_ ”

Wash raises his chin defiantly. “So what if I was?”

“Oh, my _god_. Just get in the car.”

“What?”

“I _said,_ get in the car. _My_ car. You’re like two seconds away from turning into a popsicle.”

Wash laughs. He means for it to sound incredulous and coolly disbelieving, but he thinks it falls a little short, given that his teeth start chattering in the middle of it. “Look, I just need to call Triple A and they’ll be here soon—”

“Do you even _have_ Triple A?”

Wash is so stunned that the driver somehow guessed this information that he doesn’t even bother to lie. “Well… _okay,_ how did you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” the driver says dryly. “So _that_ means, you have to call a local company, and that’s gonna take all night. Just get in the car, you can crash on my couch and we’ll come get your car in the morning.”

“What—I can’t crash on your _couch_ , I don’t even _know_ you—“

“Tucker.”

Wash stops. “What?”

“My name’s Tucker. Lavernius Tucker. And _you_ are…?”

Wash hesitates for so long that Tucker’s eyebrows are in danger of lifting right off his forehead. “Dude, it’s just your name. I’m not asking for your social.”

“Washington. But, uh…Wash. I go by Wash.”

“Great. You’re Wash, I’m Tucker, now we know each other. Can you just get in the car already?”

Wash frowns. “Look, that’s….very nice of you, but it’s _fine._ I’ll just wait in my own car until the tow truck gets here, and then I’ll drive home, it’s only about ten miles away.”

Tucker laughs then, a short, startled sound. “Uh, _no_. No way am I aiding you in your idiotic quest to keep driving in this weather. You clearly don’t know how to drive that piece of tin in the snow. I’m not trying to turn on the news tomorrow to see that some mysterious hot blond was killed because he drove into a fucking tree.”

The warmth that floods Wash’s cheeks is almost welcome in this extreme cold. “What…did you…I’m not…”

“Washington— _Wash_. Get in the car. It’s not a big deal.”

Wash hesitates for another moment before popping his trunk and grabbing his duffle bag out. He locks his car and, with a final glance, edges his way over to the passenger’s side of Tucker’s truck. He climbs in, looking uncertainly at Tucker, who grins and leans across the seat, hand extended. “Nice to meet you, Wash.”

Wash takes his hand and gives it a firm shake, says, “Nice to meet you, too,” and—

And that’s it.

That _should_ be it.

Except—

_Except he always meets Tucker when it’s snowing—_

Except that the moment their hands touch, there’s a—a _not_ -spark. Wash could handle a spark, because electricity means something is new and exciting and foreign.

This, though. This the exact _opposite_ of a spark. Tucker’s hand in his is comfortable and warm and far, _far_ more familiar than it has any right to be.

_Oh, no._

Wash pulls his hand away, but not before he notices Tucker’s eyes flicker in confusion. He hastily turns away to buckle his seatbelt before Tucker can say anything, and settles stiffly into the passenger seat. “Sorry. I’m…probably going to get your seat all wet.”

“ _Bow chicka bow wow,_ ” says Tucker, then sighs when Wash stares at him blankly. “Never mind.”

He turns the heat up, and Wash leans into the warmth. He holds his hands in front of the vents, a grateful sigh escaping his lips. Tucker gives him a sideways glance, taking in Wash’s soaked jeans and snow-covered hair. “How long were you out there?”

“A while,” Wash says. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Hmmm,” Tucker says skeptically. “If you _say_ so.”

Now that Wash is no longer in danger from dying of hypothermia, or having another one of his _episodes_ , he can’t help but notice that his rescuer is pretty cute. Or something. If he were the type to notice that sort of thing. Which he’s not. Okay, so maybe this guy— _Tucker_ —has the smoothest, softest looking dark skin he’s ever seen, and shoulder-length dreads just _asking_ for a pair of hands to bury themselves in, and a frankly ridiculous smile, but those were just the facts. Anyone would notice that. _Maybe it wasn’t the beginnings of an episode,_ Wash thinks hopefully. _Maybe you just_ wanted _him to feel familiar, because he’s cute. Or something like cute._

Which would make sense, except he’s never wished for an episode a day in his life.

“Don’t worry about your car,” Tucker says presently. “It’ll be alright there overnight. Cars get stuck all the time on the Gulch, no one’ll bother it.”

“Oh, I…it’s fine. It’s a rental, anyway.”

Tucker shoots him a sideways glance, but doesn’t pry. “You can still use my phone if there’s anyone you need to call. You know, girlfriends, or boyfriends, or…”

“What? Oh…no, there’s no one. No one’s worrying about me.”

“ _Riiiiiight_ ,” Tucker says slowly, and Wash winces.

“Okay, I didn’t mean that to sound so…”

“Dramatic?” asks Tucker. “Yes you did. That’s your thing.”

“It’s not my _thing_ —“

“Sure it is. I can tell already. Like—“

_“Like my thing is being charming, and Caboose’s thing is being…well, Caboose.”_

Wash exhales hard, curling his hands around the edges of his seat. Oh no. Oh no, _oh no._

“—sh? Wash. Uh, helllooooo, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just—“

_“—just need some fresh air. I’m fine, Tucker, really, it was just—“_

“Wash. Dude, what the fuck?”

Far too late, Wash realizes that he’s got his head in his hands, bowed almost to his knees. He forces back the waves of nausea rolling through his head and sits up straight, trying to look robustly sane. “Sorry. I just had a…headache.”

“A headache?” Tucker asks skeptically. “ _That’s_ what you’re going with?”

“That’s what I’m going with.”

“Oookay. _Look_ , if you’re like, a serial killer or something, can you at least wait until after we bang before you chop me up and stuff me in the freezer?”

That snaps Wash out of it. “Until we _what?_ ”

“Hah. Thought that might work,” says Tucker, looking entirely too cheerful for someone who just picked up a stranger on the side of a snowy road. A stranger who is showing every sign of coming undone at the seams.

 _Pull it together_ , Wash tells himself sternly. He can’t go through this again. He _can’t—_

“Really, though,” Tucker continues. “Can you give me a little more than _Washington the rental car guy?”_

“I’m….twenty-nine,” Wash says lamely, and Tucker doesn’t even try to hide his sigh of exasperation.

“Wow. Thanks, dude. Hey, wanna know something super interesting? I’m twenty-seven! Maybe next you’ll tell me your star sign.”

“I’m a—“

“Oh, my god. I was kidding.”

Wash huffs. “Okay. I…like to run.”

“….Like, for _fun?_ ”

“Like for _exercise_.”

“Like, for torture,” Tucker clarifies, nodding. “Of _course_ you do.”

“What’s that supposed to—"

“I bartend.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my fun fact. I bartend. But like, I’m a _cool_ bartender. I flip bottles and shit. That’s where I’m coming from, actually. They closed early tonight, for once.”

Wash nods a little, then frowns as his brain catches up with what Tucker just said. “Wait, you bartend in Blood Gulch? What bar?”

“Outpost 17.”

“Outpost—isn’t that place dangerous?”

Wash can practically hear Tucker rolling his eyes. “It’s not _dangerous._ ”

“It’s on the news often enough.”

Tucker waves a dismissive hand before draping it back over the steering wheel. “It’s only dangerous if you’re an idiot. Which I’m not. I know whose drinks to over pour.” He grins at Wash. “You worried about me?”

Wash sighs loudly. “Do you always flirt with strangers you pick up off the side of the road?”

“Only the cute ones, baby.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little creepy?”

“Hey! I’m not _creepy._ I’m a fucking _delight_.”

“Hmm,” says Wash before he can stop himself. “Well, if you’re a serial killer or something, can you at least wait until we bang before you chop me up and stuff me in the freezer?”

Tucker laughs, long and loud, and the sound rings like a bell inside of Wash’s skull.

_Oh, no._

* * *

Less than five minutes later, Tucker’s pulling into the parking lot of an apartment complex, his truck cutting an easy path towards a spot right in front of the door. He curses a little as he lands ankle deep in snow, and stomps comically towards the door. Wash swings his duffel over his shoulder and follows.

Tucker leads the way to the second floor and fumbles open the door to his apartment. “Shit, it’s cold as _fuck_ out. I can’t believe you were digging in the _snow_ with your hands.” He kicks his shoes off in the doorway and starts into the apartment, turning back around when he notices Wash hesitating. “Oh, just get in here.”

Wash steps over the threshold, closing the door quietly behind him. He takes in Tucker’s apartment. It looks to be a two bedroom unit, small but clean, with hardwood floors and big windows. There’s large sectional facing a modest television, and a guitar propped up against the wall.

“You play?” Tucker asks when he notices him staring.

“No, I…I had friends who did, but I’m pretty much tone deaf.”

“Aw, I’m sure you’re not that bad. Want a beer?” Tucker withdraws his head from the fridge at Wash’s silence and gives Wash a once over. “Dude. Go put on some clothes that aren’t soaking wet and come have a beer. Unless you want me to help you out of them?”

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Wash rolls his eyes. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“First door to the left. You can grab one of the black towels on the shelf, they’re clean.”

Wash makes his way down the hall and shuts himself in Tucker’s bathroom. It feels glorious to change out of his wet jeans and button down, and slip into a pair of sweats and t-shirt from his duffel bag. He towels off his hair and frowns at his reflection in the mirror, but it’s too late: his messy blond hair is doomed to remain stuck up in all directions until his next shower. He hangs his wet clothes up neatly over Tucker’s shower curtain rod and, feeling inexplicably nervous, makes his way back to the living room.

Tucker has two beers set out on the breakfast bar, but pauses before popping the cap off of Wash’s. “ _Do_ you drink? It’s cool if you don’t want one.”

“No, I—I mean yes. I drink. Sometimes. I mean, I’ll have a beer. If you’re offering.”

“Pretty sure I’m offering,” says Tucker. “ _Relax._ Have a beer.”

Wash hesitates for another moment before taking the beer that Tucker’s holding out and climbing up on the stool next to him. “So…you have kids?”

Tucker stares at him blankly until Wash gestures at the toys on the floor. “Oh! Sorry man, you don’t even notice it after a while. Yeah, I got kids—well, _a_ kid. Junior. Six years old.” Tucker’s whole face lights up then. “He’s—“

_“Fuck yeah, Junior is awesome! Check him out on his fifth grade basketball team—“_

Wash grits his teeth and forces his mind back to the present to where Tucker is saying, “—coolest fucking kid you’ve ever met.”

He points to a picture on the windowsill that Wash hadn’t noticed before, of Tucker and Junior. Junior’s sitting on Tucker’s shoulders, laughing in delight, his hands plunged deep into Tucker’s hair. “He looks just like you,” Wash says, and it’s not an exaggeration. Junior is his father in miniature, down to the big brown eyes and the deep dimples on his cheeks.

“Right?” Tucker says proudly. “He’s with his mama tonight. Keisha. Good chick, but we’re not together anymore. We just had Junior too young, ya know?”

Wash nods, and Tucker clinks their beer bottles together. “You got any kids? I know you said you don’t have any girlfriends or boyfriends, but…”

“Oh, no. No kids,” Wash says, feeling a little ridiculous. “It’s just, uh. Just me.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Tucker says cheerfully. “I’m single, too, you know.”

Tucker winks at him then, shameless and grinning. His open, easy personality would have Wash on edge even if it didn’t feel so _familiar,_ and he knows it shows when Tucker’s grin fades a little. “I was thinking of getting a cat,” Wash says quickly.

Tucker blinks. “A cat.”

“What?” Wash says, defensive. “I like cats.”

“You like to run, and you like cats. Are you even human?”

Wash huffs. “Well, what do _you_ like?”

Tucker grins, his face lighting up again. _Nobody smiles like that,_ Wash thinks blankly, as Tucker sets his beer down and crosses the room to grab his guitar.

“Music,” Tucker says, by way of explanation. “I like _music_. Wanna hear something?”

Wash nods at once, turning around on his stool as Tucker takes a seat on the couch. Tucker clears his throat dramatically and starts to play, the notes soothing and soft, and to Wash’s delight, he starts to sing.

Wash sets his beer down on the counter, unconsciously leaning towards the sounds as if he could curl up inside the notes and the soft velvet of Tucker’s voice. That voice is hauntingly familiar, but the music is not, and Wash loses himself in it, shoves the steady beat of _familiar, familiar, familiar_ to the back of his mind.

Tucker plays him a song, and it is unfamiliar and bright and _new_ , and Wash wraps his elbows around his knees and thinks, _I am so fucked_.

* * *

Wash awakens with a  jolt the next morning, and for several long seconds he can’t remember where he is or what woke him up. There is an unfamiliar slant of sunlight falling across his face, and a soft fleece blanket tucked around his shoulders, and a voice, jarring him back to consciousness. “Uhh, who the _fuck_ are _you?_ Hey, Tucker? You in here?”

 _Tucker._ Tucker, and the snow, and the guitar. Wash moves, rolling off of the couch and spinning towards the voice until he locates its source standing in the doorway. He lunges towards the newcomer, grabbing him by his shirt and slamming him so hard into the wall that the picture frames rattle.

He gets a good look at the man then, who hasn’t stopped cursing fluently since Wash grabbed him: bright green eyes behind glasses, dark tousled hair, a wiry frame built for speed. Wash easily outweighs him by a good thirty or so pounds and although he doesn’t appear to have any weapons, something about him has the hair on the back of Wash’s neck standing up.

_“You should’ve run, Wash—”_

Wash shakes the memory away and refocuses on the man’s words. “Get the fuck _off_ me, you fucking _cockbite!_ What the fucking _fuck?_ Tucker! _A little help out here!_ ”

There’s the sound of a door slamming open and a flurry of footsteps before Wash hears Tucker’s voice. “Oh, holy _shit_.”

“Do you know this man, Tucker?” Wash asks evenly, narrowing his eyes. “I woke up to him breaking into your apartment—”

The man sputters, twisting in Wash’s grip, but Wash holds him fast. “What—I wasn’t _breaking in_ , jackass, I have a _key!”_ He lifts an arm to presumably show Wash the key, but the unexpected flash of silver has Wash reaching up to intercept his arm, bending it away from his face. “Ow ow _ow_! Get the fuck off me, you crazy fuck! Tuck- _er!_ ”

“Right, right, sorry,” Tucker says, sounding as if he’s biting back a laugh. “Wash, it’s fine, you can let him go. This is my friend Church. He lives down the hall.”

The two of them glare at each other before Church widens his eyes pointedly. “ _Are you gonna fucking let me go or what?!_ ”

Wash does so reluctantly, stepping back a few paces but keeping himself in front of Tucker. His heart is pounding, hands itching to clench into fists, and he throws a glance over his shoulder at Tucker. “You sure it’s fine?”

“ _Yeah_ dude, I’m sure.” Tucker’s face lights up in one of those blinding smiles. “Were you _protecting_ me? Holy shit that’s hot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Church snaps, before stomping into Tucker’s kitchen and pulling the coffeepot towards him.

“I…” Wash turns a little more fully to face Tucker now, feeling rather silly. “I’m sorry, I—he startled me.”

Church snorts, dumping a liberal amount of grinds into the coffee pot. “So, your reaction was to try to throw me through a fucking _wall?_ ”

“Sorry,” Wash says, a little stiffly. “I really thought you were breaking in.”

Church rolls his eyes, but says nothing more, just continues to make the coffee as aggressively as possible. Wash turns back to Tucker, trying and failing not to look him up and down. Tucker is wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, hair tousled with sleep, arms stretched out over his head as he yawns. He catches Wash’s eye and winks. “Yeah, I work out.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Church groans, pausing in his efforts to wrest a coffee cup out of the cupboard. “Am I gonna have to listen to this shit all morning?”

Tucker frowns, wandering into the kitchen as well. “You wouldn’t have to listen to anything if you weren’t _here_.”

“I’m out of coffee,” Church says, nonplussed, and gestures out the window. “And _if_ you haven’t noticed, I can’t exactly drive to the store.”

Wash glances outside, noticing for the first time that there must be three feet of snow on the ground. “My car is probably be buried…”

“Don’t worry,” Tucker says cheerfully. “We’ll dig it out once they plow the roads. My truck will get us over there, no problem.”

Wash stands by the window a bit longer, looking at the snow, laid out over the parking lot. It looks so pristine, so _clean_ in a way he hasn’t seen in some time, and he stays there until Tucker appears at his elbow. “Coffee?”

He turns, accepting the hot mug gratefully. “Yeah—thanks. Do you have sugar?”

Tucker nods, pulling down the sugar bowl and resting it on the counter. Wash caries his mug carefully back over, dumping several spoonfuls into his coffee while Tucker watches, alarmed. “Uh—”

_"--seriously, dude? You want some coffee with that sugar?"_

Tucker’s voice doubles in his ears and Wash clutches the sugar bowl, breathing in deep. He notices Church pause mid-sip to eye him suspiciously, but Wash just finishes stirring his coffee and looks up calmly. “So I like my coffee sweet, big deal. Army—“

_“—army coffee is bitter.”_

He takes a hasty sip, and although Church is staring at Wash as if he’s about to snap at any moment, Tucker doesn’t say a word. He just shakes his head and puts the lid back on the sugar bowl. “Who wants breakfast? You like pancakes? I make some awesome pancakes.”

As it turns out, Tucker does indeed make awesome pancakes. The morning passes slow and easy after that, and it’s mid-afternoon by the time they leave Tucker’s apartment. They scrounge up a few extra shovels from the neighbors, and although Church does so reluctantly, he spends the better part of an hour helping Wash shovel his car out.

“Sure you’re okay to drive?” Tucker asks when they’re done, glancing up and down the road. “I know it was plowed, but…”

“I’ll be fine,” Wash says, inserting the key in the ignition. It starts, thank goodness, and he stuffs his hands back in his pockets awkwardly. “Uh, thanks. You really saved my ass.”

“It’s what I do,” Tucker says with a grin. “Rescuing damsels, and all that shit. You were totally ready to fight a burglar for me this morning, so I think we’re square.”

Church huffs from where he’s leaning up against Tucker’s truck. “Except for the part where I _wasn’t a burglar_.”

Tucker ignores him, just keeps grinning at Wash with that big smile of his. It’s even more overwhelming in the bright sunlight, little crystals frozen to Tucker’s eyelashes, hair poking out from under the ends of a beanie. “Robber,” Wash says, a little dumbly. “When someone’s home, it’s a robbery. A burglary is when the building is empty.”

Tucker tilts his head curiously. “You a cop or something?”

“No, not a cop. Not…well, not anymore.”

Tucker seems to suspect there’s a story there, but lets it drop. “I see. Well, _Wash the not-cop_ , do I get to see you again? The next time someone wants to rob me, it _might_ not be my best friend.”

“Oh,” Wash says in surprise. “Oh, I –do you _want_ to see me again?”

“Uh, _yeah_ dude,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. “That’s why I asked.”

Wash opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking at Tucker thoughtfully. There’s a familiar guilt brewing in his stomach, telling him that he _shouldn’t,_ that he knows too much, that he’d be taking advantage, that it’s just the familiarity talking, but—

An image floats to the forefront of his mind, of Tucker playing his guitar on the couch last night. _That was new,_ he realizes suddenly. The guitar, and the singing—that was _new._ Tucker helping him shovel his car out was _new._

Maybe, just _maybe,_ that can be enough.

“Yeah,” Wash says, and he doesn’t fight the grin on his face. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Tucker beams at him, whipping out his cell phone for Wash to put his number into. “I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay,” Wash says. He tries to keep the grin on his face from getting too moony, but he doesn’t think he succeeds. Tucker is making no attempt whatsoever to keep from smiling, and practically skips back to his truck, where Church is gazing skyward in despair. The two of them wait until Wash is in his car, and he drives off with a heart both heavy and light, torn between something familiar, and something bright and fresh and clean, like snowfall on a winter morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >>> [CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER ONE ART](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/157524764285/memory-is-a-sieve-layers-drifting-through-the) <<<
> 
> Welcome everyone, to our big bang fic: story by me and artwork by the one and only [Melissa](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com)! //throws confetti. PLEASE JOIN ME IN SCREAMING OVER THIS CHAPTER'S ARTWORK LIKE I'M LITERALLY LOSING MY MIND OVER IT. Melissa is also, as usual, this fic's beta.
> 
> This fic will be four chapters long and updated - when else??? - every Tuesday. :) 
> 
> I'm really excited about this story - reincarnation is a deeply personal topic to me, and I poured a lot into this. Thank you so, so much for reading, whether you're a long-time reader, or a new friend. <3


	2. Spring

 "Dad! Dad! Wash is here! He’s _here!_ Dad! Can I go let him in? _Can_ I? Dad _can I_ —”

“ _Yes,_ Junior,” Tucker says, exasperated. He closes the oven door and cranes his neck around the kitchen island in time to see Junior dash from the window to the door, pulling on his rainboots. “Close it behind you! And grab a rain jacket!” Tucker yells, but it’s too late. He can hear Junior’s footsteps thudding down the hallway, and the _creeeeeak_ of the security door as he shoves it open.

With a shake of his head, Tucker peers out the window and watches Wash open his arms as Junior splashes through the puddles and barrels into him at full speed. Tucker can just make out the sounds of their laughter two stories below as Wash lifts Junior high over his head and swings him around. Junior squeals in delight as Wash blows a raspberry on his neck before hoisting him up onto his back and starting to make his way inside.

Wash glances up towards Tucker’s apartment window just before reaching the security door, leaving Tucker absolutely no time to wipe the stupid, moony grin off of his face. He raises a hand to wave at Wash, realizes too late that it’s the hand with the oven mitt on it, and gives up trying not to look like a dork when Wash laughs again.

“Smooth,” Tucker snaps at himself, moving back away from the window. The sound of Wash and Junior’s chatter grows louder, until Wash is at the apartment door, shaking the rain from his hair.

“Hey,” Wash says, breathless and flushed from the rain. “Smells good in here.”

“Lasagna,” Tucker says as Wash sets Junior down and takes off his rainboots. He rolls his eyes as Junior immediately reaches for Wash again the second his jacket is off. “Junior, leave him be.”

“He’s fine,” Wash says cheerfully, and he swings Junior up again to sit on his shoulders. Junior looks positively delighted, hands wrapping in Wash’s hair as Wash makes his way over to the counter. “Need any help?”

“Nah, I got it.” He eyes Junior, perched up on Wash’s shoulders and looking like the cat that ate the fucking canary. “Dude, I think he likes you more than he likes me. You’re spoiling him.”

“I am _not_ ,” Wash says defensively.

“Oh, _really?_ So you didn’t slip him some peanut butter cups in the parking lot?”

Wash shifts a little guiltily. “Well—okay fine, but he knows not to eat them until after dinner. Right Junior?”

“Right,” Junior says solemnly, before rolling his eyes so hard Tucker is surprised they don’t fall out of his head. “Dad _, stop._ Wash is _cool_.”

Wash grins, finding Tucker’s eyes and winking, and Tucker feels another stupid, sappy smile stretch across his face. He furiously tries to wrest his expression back under control, but with Wash grinning at him like that, all rosy cheeked and freckled and bright-eyed with Tucker’s kid happy as could be atop his shoulders, Tucker thinks he’s fighting a losing battle. “Yeah,” he says instead, winking right back at Wash. “I guess he’s pretty cool.”

Wash’s blush darkens a bit, but all he does is jerk his head towards the lasagna when Tucker sets the pans carefully on the counter. “You made two? Someone’s hungry.”

Tucker rolls his eyes, carefully covering the second pan with tinfoil. “The second one’s for you, idiot. To take home for the week.”

“What? Oh, Tucker, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Uh, if I want to make sure you’re eating right, I do.”

“I eat right,” Wash insists. “I always eat healthy.”

Given that Junior is still sitting on Wash’s shoulders, Tucker resists looking Wash up and down with supreme difficulty. “I know dude, but you can like, eat healthy and not eat _boring._ Look. I made some green beans for you too, with like, _actual_ seasoning on them. Better than a frozen bag of veggies, yeah?”

“Much better,” Wash admits. “But still, you didn’t have to—“

“I know,” Tucker interrupts, setting three plates on the counter. “I wanted to. Junior, go set the table, please.”

Wash swings Junior down and hands him the plates, giving Tucker a small smile. “Thanks, Tucker.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re welcome,” Tucker mutters, suddenly shy. “Want something to drink?”

“Iced tea, please,” Wash says. “And do you have—“

“Extra sugar?” Tucker makes a face, reaching into one of his cabinets for the sugar bowl and setting it in front of Wash. “That stuff’s already super sweet, you know that right? You’re going to go into sugar shock one of these days…”

He trails off as Wash pulls the sugar bowl towards him, expression paling. Tucker has come to recognize this expression over the past few months, has come to expect the way Wash goes quiet, eyes faraway and as terrified as if he’s seen a ghost. “You okay?” Tucker asks, just like he always does.

“I’m fine,” Wash says quickly, giving his head a little shake just like _he_ always does. “Thanks. For the sugar.”

He dumps a heaping tablespoon into his iced tea and carries it over to the table where Junior is laying out silverware. Tucker watches him for a moment before sighing and carrying the lasagna over to the table.

It doesn’t take Wash long to snap out of his funk: Junior instantly launches into a story about his basketball practice that has them all laughing. They take their time with dinner, all having second helpings and still managing to dig into some ice cream after. Wash cleans the dishes in record time after, despite Tucker’s protests that he’ll get them later, and all too soon Wash is reaching for his coat.

“We still on for that movie next week?” Tucker asks, while wracking his brain furiously for something else he can stay to stall Wash.

Wash smiles at him. “Definitely. I got the tickets already.”

Tucker brightens. “Oh man, that was genius. You always think of shit like that.”

Wash looks pleased, and although Tucker can’t be sure, he thinks that Wash is taking much longer than necessary to zip up his jacket. “Text me when you get home?”

“I will. And I’ll call you tomorrow about….” Wash trails off, glancing out the window. “Oh, _wow._ ”

“What?” Tucker follows his gaze towards the window to see that the early spring rain has turned to snow, falling thick and fast. It looks like there’s already half an inch on the ground, and there’s no sign that it’s stopping soon. “ _Daaamn._ It’s really coming down. What the hell! It’s _April._ Dude, you can’t drive in that, you gotta spend the night.”

Junior looks as if Christmas has come early. “Oh! Oh! Yeah! _Wash!_ You gotta spend the night! You _gotta!_ ”

“He’s going to, Junior, relax.” Tucker glances at Wash. “You are, right?”

“Oh…I don’t know.” Wash squints out the window. “I’m only across town, I think I could probably make it.”

Tucker snorts. “In that piece of tin you drive? I don’t think so.”

“It’s not a piece of _tin_ ,” Wash says, wounded. He hesitates. “I don’t know…I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing. I’m the one who offered, remember? It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah!” Junior chimes in. “You can sleep in Dad’s bed!”

Tucker isn’t sure if he should be offended or delighted that Wash turns bright red in half a second flat. “Oh—I don’t—I can—”

“What?” Junior asks, innocent as could be. “Dad’s bed is _super_ big! Right, Dad? Grif slept in it with you that one time when the game ran late! And you made Church stay after he had too much to drink! And—”

“Junior!” Tucker hisses, mortified. Jesus _Christ_. All he needs is Wash thinking that he fucked Grif or Church. Or both. _At the same time._ “It wasn’t like that,” he explains hastily to Wash, who looks more amused than anything.

“Wasn’t like what?” Junior asks innocently.

“Like...like _that_ ,” Tucker says through gritted teeth. Wash and Junior grin at each other, which is ridiculous because Junior doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s grinning _about_. Ganging up on him, _again._ “Yeah, okay,” he says suddenly. “That’s a good idea, actually. You _can_ share my bed.”

That wipes the smirk off Wash’s faces instantly. “Wait, what?”

“Junior’s right,” Tucker says. “My bed is pretty big. _Huuuge,_ in fact. You’ll be _way_ more comfortable there than on the couch.”

Wash stares at him as if waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, he glances at Junior. “I…are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Tucker says brightly. He relents a bit when Wash continues to look at him as if he’s being sentenced to the gallows. “Wash, come on. We’ll all make some popcorn, watch a movie, tuck Junior in and the you and I will have a slumber party. Deal?”

Wash looks at him, then glances down at Junior, who’s bouncing excitedly at his side. “Alright, deal.”

* * *

It’s the best night Tucker can remember having in a long time. They watch both the new _Spider-man_ movies, and when Junior conks out between them halfway between the second, Wash covers him absently with a blanket. Tucker weighs the pros and cons of proposing on the spot and spends the next thirty minutes trying to get a hold of himself, a feat that is made no easier when Wash himself starts to drift off, his head coming to land sleepily on Tucker’s shoulder.

He nudges Wash gently when the movie ends. “Hey. Let’s go to bed.”

Wash jumps, a sort of fuzzy terror in the back of his eyes, before glancing between Tucker and Junior. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Just for a minute.” Tucker stands, gathering Junior in his arms and carrying him off to bed. “I think that toothbrush you used last time is still in the medicine cabinet, and the sweats that fit you are in the bottom drawer of my dresser.”

By the time Tucker finishes putting Junior to bed, it’s to see Wash making up a bed on the sofa. “I wasn’t kidding. You can just sleep in my bed.”

Wash freezes in the act of unfolding a blanket before turning to look at him. “Oh—you don’t have to do that, Tucker. I’ve slept on the couch before.”

“Yeah, and it’s uncomfortable as shit. Trust me, I know.” Tucker folds his arms. “Dude, we didn’t _know_ each other then. We do now. It’s fine.”

When Wash hesitates, Tucker knows he’s won. “Are you sure?”

“Fucking positive.” He gestures. “Come on.”

Tucker leads the way to his room, tossing down the covers and putting a fresh cover on his pillowcase. Wash is watching him with that same faraway look in his eyes, something so _devastated_ and haunted on his features that Tucker can’t help but stare. He tears his eyes away when they meet Wash’s. He _knows_ better than to ask Wash about it, but he can’t quite shake his curiosity this time.

It isn’t until they’re both settled in bed with the lights out that Tucker rolls over on his side, looking thoughtfully at Wash until he can’t pretend he doesn’t feel his gaze anymore. “What?”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

Tucker gives him a look. “Wash. Please.”

When Wash continues to lie there in stubborn silence, Tucker sighs. “That _thing._ Where you get all…far away—dude, do _not_ try to tell me that I’m imagining it,” he says, when Wash shows every sign of doing just that. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I know you’re not,” Wash says quickly. “I just…”

“Just what?”

“I…” Wash shifts restlessly, pushing the covers down to his waist, then pulling them back up to his chest. “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Wash looks at him then, _really_ looks at him, sharp and seeing and nothing unlike the hazy way he often does. Tucker holds his breath, gaze locked onto Wash’s. _This is important,_ he realizes suddenly. He doesn’t know why, or in what way, but it’s _important._

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

Tucker blinks. He waits for a few seconds, but when Wash just keeps looking at him with that focused expression, he considers the question. “Uh...no? I mean, I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Okay,” Wash says.

Tucker stares. “Are…you gonna follow up with that?”

“No.”

“Right,” Tucker says slowly. There’s a very pregnant pause. “So, like, does this have something to do with why you get all weird, or…”

“I do,” Wash says. “Believe in it. Reincarnation.”

“Oh,” Tucker says. He thinks. “I mean, I guess it’s a pretty cool concept, right? Like, imaging what you could’ve been?”

“Imagining?”

“Yeah!” Tucker sits up a little, leaning against the headboard. “Like, I could’ve been _anything,_ you know? A—a fucking knight, or Spartan, or a wizard or some shit—”

Wash snorts, the serious expression melting into a genuine smile. “A wizard?”

“Hey, I could’ve been a wizard!” Tucker says defensively. “You can’t say that I wasn’t!”

“And just what time period would _that_ have been from?”

“Maybe it’s from the future.”

He’s joking, but Wash sits up a little as well. “The future?”

“Yeah.” Tucker thinks about it. “I mean, that could be a thing, right? It’s like that book Junior likes, _A Crinkle in Time_ —“

“It’s a _Wrinkle in Time._ ”

“Whatever. That. It’s all about time and shit, right? And how it’s not a…a straight line.” Tucker pauses, fiddling with the bedsheets. “Maybe some of our future lives come first.”

“You just said you didn’t believe in reincarnation.”

Tucker shrugs. “I don’t. I mean, I guess? I don’t know, man. I’m not sure what believe. I guess I’ve always thought…I don’t know, does it _matter_ what happens? Before or after?”

“I…never thought about it that way.”

Tucker kicks out a little with his foot, his toes finding Wash’s calf. “That’s _probably_ because you overthink things.”

“Yeah,” Wash says slowly. “Maybe I do.”

“I think…what matters is _now,_ right?” It’s silly and dramatic, the type of thing that he’d never be able to say in the light of day, but it feels okay, like this. He can just barely make out Wash’s features in the dim lighting and it feels okay.

It feels _better_ than okay.

He thinks Wash feels it too, when some of the lines smooth from his face. “The now,” he repeats. “I like it.”

“Me too,” Tucker says, turning on his back to stare at the ceiling. “The now is pretty good. Right?”

He chances a glance over at Wash, who is looking at him with a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “The now is pretty good.”

* * *

The snow has almost melted in the morning, turning the city into a slopping, muddy mess as the spring sun beams down. “Finally,” Tucker mutters, squinting into the parking lot. “Think we might actually get some real sunshine now?

They do. The weather turns almost instantly, the temperature over the following week climbing nearly into the sixties. Wash drags Tucker and Junior on a hike two days later, and despite Tucker’s complaining about the exercise, he can’t deny how good the spring air feels. Wash teaching Junior how to climb trees up ahead isn’t a bad sight either. They have lunch on Tucker’s apartment porch the next day, and Tucker’s friend Grif invites them over to help him move under the guise of a pizza party.

Grif is moving out of an apartment and doesn’t have tons of furniture, but it’s enough to fill the day. Tucker makes a series of necessary wisecracks about how it’s about _time_ Grif is moving into Simmons’ house and then, satisfied that he’s met his quota, gets to work. Grif delivers spectacularly on his promise of pizza and beer, and the weather is gorgeous which is a plus not only because it makes the moving easier, but because it means that Tucker gets to admire the way Wash’s sweaty t-shirt clings to his back all day.

“Tucker _, seriously_ ,” Church grunts at one point, after Tucker almost drops an entire couch on him. He’s just witnessed Wash lift the edge of his t-shirt up to wipe at his brow, exposing about ten _thousand_ miles of abs in the process, turning Tucker’s knees to jelly. “ _Still?_ Aren’t you two a thing yet?”

“What, me and Wash?” Tucker asks, once they’ve gotten the goddamn couch up the steps and he’s out of danger of immediate death. “No, we’re not a thing.”

“You sure _act_ like it,” Church says. “You make moony eyes at him enough.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, “but..”

“But….?”

Tucker shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Don’t wanna rush it, you know? He gets….”

He trails off, trying to find a way to articulate the way Wash goes far away. Just that morning, he’d gone quiet for nearly five minutes after Tucker had cracked a joke—he can’t even remember what he’d said, only that it made Wash fall dead silent. “I don’t know if he’d be into it,” he says finally. “Dating, or whatever.”

Church shrugs. “Won’t know until you try, right?”

Tucker eyes him. “Wait, do you _want_ us to be a thing? You don’t even _like_ him!”

“What I _want_ is for one of you to make a fucking move so the rest of us don’t have to watch you two dance around each other for the next five years,” Church snaps. “You just almost killed me with a fucking _couch!_ ”

“Oh, please, don’t be so—” Tucker stops as Church’s words sink in. “Wait, do you mean Wash makes eyes at me, too? He _does?_ When—Church, _get back here!_ ”

Church does not return to answer Tucker’s very important question, and goes mysteriously deaf whenever Tucker brings up the topic again, so Tucker drops it for the day. He turns his attention instead to Wash, trying to see if there’s any truth in Church’s words, if it’s possible that Wash could have a thing for him after all.

Over the next week or so, Tucker starts noticing things about Wash that he hadn’t before. The softness in his eyes, when he watches Tucker teach Junior a new song on the guitar. The way he’s memorized how Tucker likes his ice cream, sandwiches, and hot dogs. How he doesn’t pull away that one night when they go out to dinner with their friends and wind up with their legs pressed tight together under the too-small table. The little hitch in his breath when Tucker reaches across him on the couch to grab the remote. The way he asks Tucker to text him every night after working at the bar, just to make sure he got home safe.

He details all of this to one of his fellow bartenders and good friend, Kai, one night during a slow shift, and she stops him on that last one, thrusting her palm up into the air. “Wait, wait, _wait._ He has your weirdo ice cream order memorized and like, texts you goodnight all the time— and you _aren’t_ blowing him?”

“Okay, first off—for the _millionth time_ —mint chocolate chip ice cream is _not_ weird, lots of people like it, and secondly…” Tucker pauses. “So what, you think I _should_ be blowing him?”

“I mean, if you’re not, _I’m_ gonna.”

“Hey! Hold up, I called dibs!”

“But _Tucker_ ,” she says plaintively, “he’s _hot_. Like, really, _really_ hot. _Someone_ needs to blow him. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t fucked the same person before!”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Tucker hesitates, then begins slicing up his batch of limes with new gusto. “You know what, never mind.”

“ _Ohhhhhhh_ ,” Kai breathes, as if he’s just revealed the secrets of the universe to her. “Ohhh, _Tucker._ ”

“What?!”

“You _like_ him.”

“Yeah, Kai, that’s why we’re having this conversation!”

“No no,” she says impatiently, waving around her own knife. “You really, really _like him._ Like, in a _this-is-a-hottie-for-me-and-a-dad-for-_ Junior kind of way. You want to _be_ with him.”

It isn’t until she phrases it like that that Tucker realizes that yes, that’s exactly what he wants, more than he’s wanted anything in a long, long time. “Junior fucking adores the guy, you know?” he mumbles. “I don’t wanna fuck it all up.”

“You won’t,” Kai says, so earnestly that Tucker stops cutting his limes and looks at her. “Wash wants to blow you _too_ , silly.”

“He does? You think?”

Her face crinkles into that mischievous, lop-sided smile he knows so well. “ _I_ think you should find out.”

* * *

 

 Tucker spends a few days desperately trying to think of the perfect plan to breach the subject with Wash, wondering if he should make a move, or try to have a conversation, or just continue to wait and see if Wash tries to initiate anything. In the end, he gives it up and just invites Wash over for pizza and wine that weekend. It’s Junior’s regular weekend at his mother’s, and although Tucker and Wash have spent plenty of time alone before, Tucker thinks the air feels charged from the moment Wash arrives. His stomach crashes unsteadily when he opens the door to reveal Wash, tousle-haired and bright eyed, and wearing that blue button down that brings out his eyes.

“Hi,” Tucker blurts, sticking out a hand for Wash to shake before he can think about what he’s doing. Heat rises to his face immediately, but Wash just laughs a little and grasps his hand. Tucker pulls him into a one-armed hug, trying to make it look like that’s what he was going for all along, and Wash goes easily, laughing into his ear.

Tucker’s still blushing when they pull apart, but he just turns away and makes a beeline for the oven. “Good, uh, good timing. Think the pizza’s almost done.”

“You _made_ the pizza?” Wash asks, impressed. “From scratch?”

Tucker resists the urge to puff up his chest. “Fuck _yeah_. Two of ‘em. One with veggies and one with meat. I haven’t made pizza in a while, so hopefully they don’t suck…”

“I’m sure they’ll be great,” Wash says, and as it turns out, they are. They devour both pies on the couch while sitting in front of the T.V., making their way through a bottle of wine. The atmosphere is light and easy, and Wash only gets that faraway look on his face once, and Tucker is certain he’s not imagining the way they both can’t stop smiling.

 _Maybe,_ he thinks hopefully, as the movie credits start to roll and Wash settles more comfortably onto his couch, showing no signs of leaving. _Maybe…_

Tucker sits up, suddenly struck by brilliance. He turns his hasty motion into a smooth stretch, standing and pouring them both another glass of wine before turning off the T.V. “Thought I’d play a little, if that’s cool?” he asks, gesturing towards his guitar.

Wash accepts his glass of wine and smiles up at him. “I’d love that.”

Tucker grins himself, pleased. It’s one of his _favorite_ things about Wash, how he’s not only willing, but happy to listen to Tucker play for however long he wants. Tucker takes a seat on the edge of the couch, settling the guitar in his lap. He plays a few songs to get warmed up, songs that he knows Wash likes, before clearing his throat.

Wash seems to sense a change in the atmosphere, and sits up a little straighter as Tucker begins to play again. He can tell Wash recognizes the song by its first few notes as the one that Tucker played the night they first met in the blizzard. Tucker plays through the entirety of _Sweet Child O’Mine_ , and this time, he slows it down, and he changes the pronouns.

_“He’s got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories, where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky…”_

Wash’s eyes widen a little, cheeks darkening, before the beginnings of a smile tug at his cheeks. Tucker can see Wash’s breath catch even from across the couch, and he continues to sing, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Wash’s for any longer than he has to.

The silence is charged and electric when Tucker finishes, and he clears his throat, meaning to crack a joke or say _something_ , but he can’t find the words _. Any_ words. He supposes it doesn’t matter, that he’s said everything he could possibly say, expressed himself in the way that he knows best. Judging from the look on Wash’s face, he got the message across loud and clear: Wash’s eyes are soft with affection, and dark with a want Tucker is certain he’s not imagining.

Tucker’s mouth goes dry as Wash straightens, sets down his glass of wine, and begins to slide down the couch towards him. Tucker doesn’t move to meet him, or put down his guitar, just remains frozen and breathless, as Wash gets closer and closer until their faces are inches apart.

Tucker’s whole body jumps or shivers or does _something_ ridiculous that he has no control over as Wash lifts a hand to brush Tucker’s hair behind his shoulders, the pads of his fingertips skimming across Tucker’s cheekbone. Wash flattens his hand out until he’s cupping Tucker’s cheek, the other resting gently on the side of his neck. Tucker is breathing so hard that he’s practically panting, and he’s certain that Wash can feel the pulse of his throat fluttering like mad underneath his palm. He feels as if his skin is on _fire_ in the places where they’re touching, bone-deep desire surging through him so powerfully that Tucker is d _izzy_ with it. He’s been wildly turned on before but this is more than wanting Wash to fuck him—although he does want that, _badly_ —this is—this is—

_Familiar._

It’s the most powerful sense of déjà vu he’s ever experienced, frozen in those last few inches with Wash—Wash’s hands on his face, Wash’s blue eyes locked onto his own, Wash, Wash, Wash. “ _Wash_ ,” he breathes, and then Wash closes the gap and presses their mouths together and Tucker stops caring about déjà vu and familiarity and switches to hoping and praying that Wash never stops kissing him, _ever._ It feels so good that he wants to cry, and for a moment Tucker can do nothing more than kiss him back, utterly helpless under Wash’s mouth and hands, which are now traveling hungrily up and down his arms.

Wash moves his mouth to Tucker’s neck, and Tucker regains enough presence of mind to reach for Wash. He’s entirely forgotten about the guitar on his lap and nearly knocks it to the floor, but Wash takes it from his trembling hands and rests it reverently against the coffee table—Christ, he _is_ trembling, not just his hands but his entire body. Wash catches his hands and rubs them between his own, looking at Tucker in concern. “Are you okay?”

Tucker nods furiously, untangling their fingers and cupping the back of Wash’s neck to tug him back into another kiss. “M’okay,” he gasps when they part. “Swear. _Fuck,_ Wash, please don’t stop kissing me, _please_ …”

Wash surges to meet him with new intensity, hands plunging deep into Tucker’s hair and tugging just hard enough to tilt Tucker’s head back and send those delicious little pinpricks of pain dancing along his scalp. Tucker lets out a moan, hands fisting desperately into Wash’s shirt to tug him closer, and Wash pulls his hair again and goes right for that sensitive spot behind Tucker’s left ear, lips attaching there and sucking hard, and _holy shit,_ how did Wash find both of those things so _quickly_ —

And then he stops caring because Wash’s hand is traveling up his thigh and he’s still biting at Tucker’s neck and Tucker has never been so turned on in his entire life. He’s almost painfully hard, squirming against Wash’s hand and trying to urge it higher, but Wash does him one better and swings a leg over Tucker’s waist until he’s straddling his lap.

Tucker groans in relief as Wash weight in his lap provides some much needed friction, and can’t stop himself from grinding hard against Wash’s ass. Wash rocks back down against him and it’s amazing but not enough, there are entirely too many clothes in between them and they need to go, _all_ of them—

He accidentally pops one of the buttons on Wash’s shirt in his haste to yank it off and winces. “Sorry,” he gasps. “Buttons. The buttons.”

Wash detaches his mouth from Tucker’s ear to blink at him, following his gaze to where Tucker is patting vaguely at the broken button. “Fuck the buttons,” Wash mutters hoarsely, so Tucker rips the whole fucking shirt off like he’s undressing Superman. The buttons go flying and it’s one of the single most erotic moments of Tucker’s life. He yanks Wash’s undershirt up over his head, reveling in the way it musses up his hair, and then blinks a little stupidly, because abs. _Abs._ He wants his mouth _all over them,_ wants to come on Wash’s broad chest, wants to flip him over and fuck him into this couch while he admires every single swell of the muscles in his back.

For now, he settles for getting his hands all over Wash’s body—the cuts below his shoulders, the line of his spine, the creases between his abs. He stops only long enough for Wash to yank Tucker’s own shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. Wash jumps as Tucker digs his fingers into his side, a breathy laugh escaping his throat. “You ticklish, Wash?” Tucker asks with a grin.

Wash’s eyes get that fuzzy, faraway look for the briefest of seconds. “I’m not sure, actually,” he says, the words almost automatic and a little sad, and Tucker has no idea what he’s talking about so he just tickles Wash again. 

It works. The fuzzy look leaves Wash’s face as he laughs, snagging Tucker’s wrists and pinning them to the back of the couch. Wash is smiling as he leans in to kiss him, hands sliding up from Tucker’s wrists to interlock their fingers together. Tucker can’t stop grinning into the kiss and he can tell Wash can’t either. Wash keeps their hands tangled together, holding Tucker’s gently to the couch, and Tucker squeezes his hands hard as Wash turns his brain to jelly. Their bare chests slide together, lips on each other’s mouths and necks and shoulders, hands clenching and unclenching. Tucker is just starting to get into a rhythm with his grinding, groaning low and steady, when all at once Wash’s weight his gone from his lap. Tucker opens his eyes, bewildered, to see Wash sliding to his knees, spreading Tucker’s legs apart.

“Oh, god,” Tucker whimpers. He jumps as Wash drags his hands up the inside of Tucker’s thighs before going right for the button on his jeans, drawing his cock out of his boxers. “Holy fuck, _Wash_ …”

Wash cants his eyes up at him, leaning forward and letting Tucker’s cock rub along the side of his cheek, bypassing it with his mouth completely. He plants a kiss right there at the base, and Tucker’s hips jolt forward. Wash’s mouth is so close, and he can’t stop himself from rutting against Wash’s face, desperately seeking out that warm, wet heat. Wash takes his fucking time about giving Tucker what he wants, lips ghosting up the other side of Tucker’s cock, tongue swirling around his head, teeth just barely grazing as he runs them up the underside. Tucker’s hands fist in the couch cushions and blankets, trying not to grab Wash’s hair and shove his cock right into his mouth; he tips his head back up onto the couch and pants up at the ceiling. “Wash,” he whines, “please, holy fuck, _please_ …”

Wash sucks him into his mouth and Tucker practically sobs in relief, fingers curling in Wash’s hair, hips snapping up as he thrusts into Wash’s throat. “S-sorry,” he tries to gasp, forcing his hands away from Wash’s head and trying to get himself under control. “Holy shit, I’m sorry…”

Wash doesn’t even gag, just grabs Tucker’s wrists and tugs them back to his hair, sucking Tucker back down until his nose is brushing Tucker’s curls. Tucker cradles the back of Wash’s head more gently this time, hands trembling, and lets Wash set the pace, hips jerking up to meet him. Wash’s mouth is hot and eager, head bobbing enthusiastically, hands running up and down Tucker’s thighs, squeezing his hips. _It’s like magic,_ Tucker thinks deliriously, the way Wash seems to know exactly what to do at exactly the right moment to make him shake apart even more, to turn him to absolute putty, and he’s dimly aware that he’s muttering a stream of, “Wash that’s so good, so _gooood,_ please don’t stop, please, oh my god holy fucking _shit_ that’s so good, please don’t stop, _please_ —“

He doesn’t stop. Wash sucks him off until Tucker comes hard, back arching up off the couch as he cries out, and he doesn’t pull away even then, swallowing Tucker’s cum and sucking until he’s tingling and sensitive and utterly spent. He runs his hands along Tuckers thighs a few times, seemingly reluctant to stand as Tucker blinks at him dazedly. After a few minutes of Wash peppering Tucker’s hipbones with soft kisses, he finally pushes up to his feet. There’s something off about his face, some strange _guilt_ behind the obvious lust and want, but Tucker doesn’t think too hard on it for now, just reaches for Wash’s cock.

“Tucker,” Wash says, the word strangling in his throat on the way out. “You don’t…have to…”

Tucker looks up incredulously as he palms Wash through the fabric of his jeans. Some of the cotton in his brain has dissipated with his release, and it’s a little easier to form coherent sentences. “Dude, are you _kidding_ me? You just gave me a world class blow job and didn’t even fucking _touch_ yourself. Relax and let me get you off.”

Wash still looks uncertain, but he doesn’t pull away as Tucker slowly undoes the button on his jeans. His hips sway forward as Tucker draws his cock out, legs buckling as his hands scramble for purchase on Tucker’s shoulders. “Ohhh god, _Tucker_ …”

Tucker grins up at him as he begins to stroke, relishing the way Wash’s eyes flutter closed. “ _Yeeeah,_ that’s it, say my name again…”

“ _Tucker,”_ Wash breathes, reverent and breathless, and Tucker feels his abdomen pull tight with want again. “ _Tucker_ …”

“Jesus, Wash,” Tucker mutters as jerks at Wash a little faster. “How is it…even _possible_ that you’re this fucking hot…”

Wash just sort of moans in response, his hips snapping forward helplessly with every pull of Tucker’s hand. He stumbles a little, one leg landing heavy between Tucker’s knees, hands pressing into the couch on either side of Tucker’s head. “Hnngh… _Tucker_ …I’m gonna…gonna come all over you…if you don’t…”

“That’s the plan,” Tucker mutters. He rubs his thumb over the head of Wash’s cock and is rewarded when Wash’s whole body shakes. “Come on baby, come for me…”

Wash comes with a  shuddering gasp, splattering over Tucker’s chest and hand, legs shaking as he tips forward. Tucker places a steadying hand on his hip and keeps stroking, until Wash is trembling against him, hands braced on the couch and forehead pressed to Tucker’s. They stay there for a moment, panting into each other’s space, until Tucker tilts his head up and their lips meet.

The kiss is long and lazy, and when they finally pull away Tucker is grinning from ear to ear. “Holy shit dude, that was….”

He trails off as Wash pulls away abruptly, zipping up his jeans and reaching for his shirt. “You okay?”

Wash’s eyes flick back to Tucker, traveling down his chest. “You—I’ll get you a towel.”

“It’s fine, I can get—”

Wash is gone before he can finish his sentence, leaving Tucker blinking at the place where he stood. He swallows hard, the afterglow fading rapidly as Wash wordlessly hands him the paper towels, refusing to meet Tucker’s eye. “Wash. What’s up?”

“Nothing. It’s—I’m sorry,” Wash blurts. He finally meets Tucker’s eyes with what looks like an immense amount of effort. “I…I shouldn’t have done that.”

Tucker stares at him. “Done _what?_ Given me the best head of my entire _life?_ Are you kidding?”

“I took advantage of you,” Wash mutters, and then he actually turns away as if he’s going to _leave,_ just like that, with no explanation whatsoever.

“Whoa whoa _whoa_.” Tucker lunges forward, grabbing Wash’s wrist. He’s a little shocked at the enormity of the relief that pulses through him when Wash doesn’t pull away. “What the fuck are you _talking_ about? You didn’t—we’re barely even _drinking_. Takes a little more than two glasses of wine to give me a buzz, Wash.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Wash says stiffly.

“Well, then what _did_ you mean?” When nearly thirty seconds goes by and all that happens is Wash stares at the floor, Tucker sighs. Now _he’s_ feeling guilty, and he tries to think back on if he’d said or done anything weird that evening to make Wash act this way. “Was it not—not as good for you?”

Wash whips his head around so fast Tucker swears he hears something crack. “What—no! I mean yes! I mean— _of course it_ was good. You’re gorgeous and that—it was _amazing._ ”

Tucker flushes, equal parts pleased and relieved. “Then…you wanna tell me what the fuck you’re so wound up about? You got off, I got off, we both had a good time, what’s the problem?”

“I took _advantage_ of you,” Wash says again, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Wash, I don’t know what that _means_.” When Wash doesn’t answer, again, Tucker sighs and pulls his hand away, flopping back against the couch. “Look, if this is your way of telling me you don’t want to do this again, then that’s fine—I mean, I think you’re real cool, and I’d be down for like…having a thing with you, but if you just wanted a quick fuck, then—“

Tucker stops, seriously annoyed at the open, vulnerable tone his voice has taken. He grits his teeth, pushing up off the couch, as Wash turns to face him. “Tucker, no—“

“Look, I get it, alright? If you want to go, just _go_. You just—didn’t have to be such a dick about it.”

He stands, crossing the apartment to his kitchen and rummaging in his cupboard for a glass of water. When he finishes, he chances a glance at the living room. Wash is still standing there, fiddling with the shirt he’s retrieved off the floor and looking utterly miserable. “Wash, either explain what the fuck you’re so upset about or _go_. I don’t want to play games. I have a kid. A kid who _likes_ you. I like you too, in case you haven’t fucking noticed.”

“I like Junior too!” Wash protests. “And I like you _too_ , Tucker….I…I like you a lot.”

“Then what the fuck is the problem?” Tucker sets down his glass and slams the cupboard a little harder than necessary, feeling immediately guilty when Wash flinches. “I just don’t understand,” he says, more quietly. “I mean, that wasn’t…wasn’t just....that felt _good._ _Really_ good. Like I’m _pretty_ sure I just had a fucking religious experience, and I kinda got the impression you did too.”

He can see the way Wash wars with himself for a while before sinking into a seat at the breakfast bar, rubbing his hands over his face. After a moment, Tucker rests his elbows on the counter, leaning towards him. “I—don’t know how to say this,” Wash says haltingly, “without sounding like an idiot.”

“Wash, just. Come on. Fucking out with it.”

There’s another long silence, and then—

“Do you remember,” Wash says stiffly, “when I asked you about reincarnation?”

Tucker stares at him. “Yeah dude, it was like, a week and a half ago. I have a pretty good memory.”

Wash flushes. “ _Tucker_ —”

“Alright, alright, sorry.” Tucker takes a deep breath. “Yes. I remember when you asked me about reincarnation. What the fuck does that have to do with the awesome sex we just had?”

“Everything,” Wash says, and _holy shit_ Tucker has never met anyone so dramatic in his _whole goddamn life._

“Okay,” Tucker says. “Well, then, go on.”

“I believe in that,” Wash says, in the same tone one might use to confess that they’d recently committed a felony.

Tucker furrows his brow. “What, in reincarnation? Yeah, I _know_ dude. I kinda figured from our conversation. Considering that you _told me_ and all.”

“No, I…” Wash twists and untwists his fingers together, and Tucker resists the urge to cover Wash’s hands with his own. “I really… _believe in it._ I…I remember stuff.”

“What, like stuff from other lives and shit?”

“Exactly.”

Tucker thinks this over. “Like…you have dreams?”

“Sometimes,” Wash says. He’s still watching Tucker as if he might explode at any given moment. “Sometimes they’re dreams. Sometimes they’re…flashes. Like visions. They can be…really overwhelming.”

“How do you know they’re memories? And not…I don’t know, _just dreams?_ Or daydreams?”

“When you remember something,” Wash says slowly, “how can you tell if it’s a dream or a memory?”

Tucker opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Huh. I never thought about it. I don’t know, I can just…tell.”

Wash gives him a wry smile. “There’s your answer.”

Tucker leans against the countertop and tries to imagine what that must feel like. After a few moments, he gives it up and looks back at Wash. “Okay, so. You believe in reincarnation. You remember stuff from other lives. I still don’t get what this how to do with why you’re all freaked out about blowing me.”

“Because I….” Wash stops, and he looks so terrified that this time Tucker can’t help reaching out across the counter and taking his hand. Wash jerks in surprise, looking down at their clasped hands.

“Because…?”

“Because I remember you,” Wash blurts. “I think I knew you. In another life. _Lives_.”

“You _remember_ me?” Tucker asks, fascinated. “You think we knew each other in a past life? _Really?_ ”

Wash nods, watching Tucker apprehensively. Tucker jostles his hand, impatient. “Well come on, you can’t just end it there! What was I _like?_ Was I _hot?_ Was I a _badass?”_

“Well…yes. Sometimes,” Wash says cautiously. “But…”

Tucker lifts an eyebrow. “Just how _well_ did we know each other? _Intimately?”_

Wash’s smile instantly fades. “Yes.”

“Geez, don’t look so happy about it. Was it not good?”

“No, Tucker it was…” Wash sighs, running his other hand through his hair. “Tucker, that’s the _problem_. Didn’t you find it odd that I knew _exactly_ what you liked just now?”

“No,” Tucker says blankly. “I just thought you were, you know, _really good_ at giving head. Which you _are,_ by the way.”

“It’s because I’ve…done it before. Because _we’ve_ done this before. Because I _remember_ what you liked, and I—”

“Wait a minute,” Tucker interrupts as it finally, _finally_ clicks. “ _Waaaaait_ a minute. That’s why you’re so upset? Because we apparently knew each other in a past life where you sucked my dick, and you already have my kinks like, fucking cataloged in your brain?”

Wash looks thoroughly _miserable_. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, and I…I’m so _sorry,_ I shouldn’t have—“

“Wash,” Tucker says, struggling to keep the grin off of his face. “ _Wash_. I don’t care if you tell me you’re a fucking mind reader and went digging around in my head. I don’t care if Jesus Christ himself descended from the sky and told you my blowjob preferences. That was the _hardest_ I’ve ever come in my _whole life._ It was amazing.”

“But I _took advantage of you_.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “Wanna come over here and take some more advantage?”

“This isn’t funny, Tucker!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh!” Tucker bites his lips, but he can’t keep the grin off of his face. “I just don’t see how this is a bad thing—“

“It’s a bad thing because I shouldn’t have _known_ any of that,” Wash insists. “I shouldn’t _know_ things about you, and I definitely shouldn’t _act_ on them.”

“But you didn’t _hurt_ me,” Tucker says, bewildered. “You made me feel _good,_ like, _really_ good.”

“ _This_ time,” Wash says. “Sometimes it doesn’t _work_ like that—sometimes it’s…”

He stops, pulling his hand away from Tucker’s and reaching once more for his discarded voice. “I should go.”

“But I don’t want you to go,” Tucker blurts, panicked. “ _Wash_. Come on…”

Wash pauses, twisting his t-shirt in between his hands. “You just said that you don’t want to play games,” he says haltingly. “You have a son. You deserve—”

“Don’t,” Tucker snaps, suddenly angry. “Don’t you _dare_ say it. _Don’t_ say I deserve better. You don’t get to tell me what I deserve. I can handle this, okay? I can handle a…a believing in reincarnation thing.”

Wash has the decency to look guilty at that, although he shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then _make_ me understand.”

“It’s not a—a _believing in reincarnation_ thing,” Wash says, sounding angry for the first time. “It’s a—Tucker, _there’s something wrong with me._ This isn’t how it’s supposed to _work_. I shouldn’t know _any_ of this. It’s not fair to you.”

“But I don’t care,” Tucker says, bewildered. “Wash, I don’t _care!_ I don’t care if you remember stuff!”

“It’s not just that,” Wash says quietly. “The memories—sometimes they get so bad that I don’t even know where I am.”

“What if I remind you?”

Tucker thinks that Wash would look less stunned if he’d hit him across the face with a baseball bat. He blinks at Tucker, looking utterly dazed, and when he speaks his voice is small and shaky. “What?”

“ _That’s_ what happens when you get all quiet and shit, right? You’re confused, or like, _remembering_ something.”  Tucker says fiddles with the edge of a dish towel. “So, you know. Just fucking tell me when it happens. We could talk about it if you want, or I could talk about something else. I’m good at talking about stuff. _Any_ stuff.”

“Tucker…”

But Tucker’s on a roll, babbling with a nervous energy that isn’t usually like him. “And if you get nightmares, I could be there. Junior gets really shitty night terrors sometimes and—and I hate the thought of you waking up like that and being alone. I fucking _hate_ it. So, don’t be alone. Be—be here. With me. Instead. I’ll wake you up, I’ll remind you, I’ll…I’ll be there.”

Wash’s face grows, if possible, more stunned. “I—Tucker, are you asking me—what are you asking me?”

“I’m saying that I want you,” Tucker says. “I want to be with you. And hold your hand and stuff. I want to, you know.” He shrugs. “Date you.”

“You believe me,” Wash says slowly. “You…. _believe_ me?”

“Well, yeah,” Tucker says. “I mean—I don’t know if I believe in _reincarnation,_ but…I believe _you._ I don’t think you’re lying or crazy. I trust you. I don’t see why—”

“I was in a mental institution for two years.”

Tucker freezes in his act of reaching for Wash’s hand again, letting his own fall limply to the counter. “You— _what?_ You were committed? Because of this?”

“I committed myself.” Wash is clenching his hands into fists so hard that it looks painful. “I…hurt someone that I cared about, and so I checked myself into a hospital. It wasn’t safe for me to be around people.”

“Oh,” Tucker says. It’s all he can manage.

“Yeah,” Wash says, “Oh.”

He sits down next to Tucker, and they’re silent for a moment, thinking. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Wash says finally, just like Tucker knew he would. “You or Junior.”

“I know,” Tucker whispers. It feels as if something is breaking inside of him, something new and shiny crumbling to dust only moments after it was built. “I get that.”

Wash nods, a look of finality on his face. “I’m so—”

Tucker reaches out to catch his wrist as he turns to go. “I wasn’t finished.”

Wash pauses, looking from their hands to Tucker’s face before sitting back down slowly. Tucker takes a deep breath. “Right. So, let’s talk about this for like, two fucking seconds, okay?”

Wash looks at him warily. “Okay…”

“This person that you hurt,” Tucker said abruptly. “Was it someone who hurt you in a previous life?”

“Well…yes.”

“And have I ever hurt you in a previous life?”

“No, but—”

“Has Junior?”

“No, but— _Tucker_ —”

“Okay,” Tucker says loudly, holding up a hand. “So there’s point one. There’s no precedence for you wanting to hurt me or Junior. You've like, never even raised your voice at us. Two—have you ever talked about this with anyone before?”

“Yes,” Wash says. “I…talked about it in the hospital.”

“Not what I meant, dude.”

“No,” Wash says. “I’ve—never told anyone this before. My friend Carolina knows I was in a hospital, but she doesn’t know all the details.”

“Right,” Tucker says briskly. He lets go of Wash’s wrist, confident that he’s not going to make a break for it, and gets up to retrieve their wine glasses from the coffee table. “So. Maybe you suppressing all this shit _isn’t_ the best idea. Maybe just—letting the memories come, and talking about them, will help. Maybe it’s the suppression that’s dangerous.”

Wash accepts his glass of wine and, after a moment, takes a sip. “I never thought about it that way.”

“I figured. So. That’s point number two. Wanna hear number three?”

Wash says nothing, just looks at him, and Tucker takes a breath. “Point number three is that this is fucking stupid. You trying to go it alone your whole life. What, you’re just…never gonna make friends or have sex or try to have a family? That’s _shitty_ , Wash.”

“I just want to keep people safe,” Wash says. “I…you have a kid…”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Wash, if I thought for a fucking second that you would hurt Junior, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’ve already spent the night while he’s here, you know.”

“I know, but…”

Wash trails off, and Tucker takes a sip of wine to calm his nerves. “Look. What if we just…take shit slow? What if we just try? Maybe you only spend the night when Junior’s not here for a while, if it’d make you feel better. I know you take pills—is this why?”

Wash nods. “They’re an anti-anxiety medication.”

“Right. So, keep taking those and…maybe talk to someone, you know? If you aren’t already. Not like a, _you’re-crazy_ thing, but a _clear-your-head_ kind of thing. And you can talk to _me_ , too.  I’ll listen.”

The wistfulness is clear in Wash’s eyes. “I don’t know…”

“Look,” Tucker says. “If you’re not…if you’re really not comfortable, then we don’t have to do anything. That’s cool. But if you’re doing this because you wanna protect me or some bullshit, then…then I think you gotta let me make this decision on my own. I know what I can handle. And I wanna handle you.”

Wash cracks a smile. “Handle me?”

“Yup. In _all kinds_ of ways.”

The wistfulness in Wash’s eyes makes Tucker’s heart ache. He watches as Wash glances around his apartment, gaze lingering on the pictures on Tucker’s windowsill, lingering on the one of him with Junior. “Slowly? We can go—slowly?”

Tucker blinks hard before a grin spreads across his face. “Fuck yeah we can! _So_ slowly. Shit, you just—whatever you need. I just wanna try. Can we? Can we just try?”

Wash laughs and it’s the most beautiful thing Tucker’s ever heard in his whole goddamn life. “Okay. Okay! We can…yes. We can try. If you’re sure.”

“I’m _so_ sure,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “Just. You just gotta _tell_ me stuff. That’s all. No matter how crazy it is. No cryptic bullshit. Okay?”

Wash nods. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know. It’s cool.” He grins. “You wanna come over here and give your hot boyfriend a kiss, or what?”

There’s a hopeful vulnerability in Wash’s eyes that Tucker knows is all over his own face as well, and he leans forward to kiss Wash. Wash kisses him back, lips moving against Tucker’s soft and slow, and _familiar,_ in ways he can’t explain, the _best_ possible ways.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >>>[CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER TWO ART](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/157818567260/familiar-theres-just-this-quiet-creeping)
> 
> Art by my wonderful Big Bang artist (and beta!) [Melissa](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/). Go check out her wonderful Big Bang fic [HERE!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9894161/chapters/22178597)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, guys. :) So happy to have so many of you on board once more! Seeing your names in my the comments and kudos is like getting a text from an old friend you're very fond of. <3


	3. Summer

_Summer in Chorus is hot and sticky, the humidity in the air a tangible thing. The first summer after the war, Junior comes to visit and Tucker drives the three of them down to the ocean in a jeep, a_ real _one, not a Warthog or a repurposed military vehicle. The sky is a bright and boundless blue, and when Wash sees the ocean his breath catches in his throat._

_He stands there at the very edge of the water, mesmerized, while Junior goes splashing into the surf. Tucker is laughing as he follows him, smile faltering when he looks back to Wash. “You okay?”_

_“It’s so…it’s so big…”_

_Tucker tilts his head. “You never seen the_ ocean _before?”_

_“I don’t remember,” Wash says. It’s an old pain, and Wash’s voice is more wistful than sad, but Tucker presses his forehead briefly against Wash’s shoulder and sighs._

_“Well, let’s go remember this, then.” He straightens and tugs at Wash’s arm with a grin. “C’mon, dude, the—”_

“—water’s just fine.”

Wash gives his head a little shake, blinking against the bright sunlight. “Huh?

“I said, the water’s fine…” Tucker trails off and takes a good look at Wash’s face. “You remember something?”

The words jolt Wash back to the present, rooting him on solid ground. He takes a moment to breathe deep, focusing on the hot sand beneath his toes and the sun beating down on his shoulders. It never fails to shock him, the casual way that Tucker asks him this, and the easy way that he listens to Wash’s answers. “Uh. Yeah. I did.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Wash hesitates, meeting Tucker’s eyes briefly before turning to gaze back out at the sea. “It was just—this. You and me and Junior, at the beach.”

Tucker’s whole face lights up as he follows Wash’s gaze to where Junior is laughing, delighted, in the water. “So I _did_ have Junior before? Like, Junior specifically?"

“You did,” Wash says, and he touches Tucker’s wrist with his fingers, feather light. “Sort of. You were a good dad then, too.”

Wash will never get over the way Tucker smiles at him. He has so many different smiles—beams and smirks and soft little half-smiles. Wash wants to catalogue all of them, press them in between the pages of a book like roses. He wants to pull them out whenever he needs something tangible to ground him to the present, something real, and here, and _now._  

Tucker pulls Wash forward into the surf, which, contrary to Tucker’s earlier words, is shockingly cold. He yelps as Tucker cups his hands and splashes water right in his face. _“Tucker!”_

Tucker sticks his tongue out and Wash lunges, scooping Tucker up in his arms and carrying out to where the water is a little deeper. He plunges them both into the waves, cutting off Tucker’s yells, and when they emerge, Junior is rolling around in the sand, clutching his stomach and howling in mirth. Tucker spits out a mouthful of water and huffs, glaring at Junior. “Oh, you think that’s funny, little man?”

He splashes towards Junior, who takes off with a shriek. Wash grins and watches them for a while, turning to float on his back.

It’s dark by the time they finally leave the beach, breathless and sunburned. Tucker prods at Wash’s shoulders, grimacing. “Dude, you put _so_ much sunblock on. How are you red already?”

“Story of my life,” Wash says with a sigh. He can’t bring himself to feel truly upset, not when everything in him is relaxed and content. “I probably shouldn’t spend the night, though. Left the aloe at my place.”

It’s uncanny, the way that Tucker and Junior’s faces both fall into identical expressions of disappointment, all big brown eyes and pouty frowns. “ _Awwww_ ,” Junior says, as if Wash has just stated he’s fleeing the country, never to return. “But _Waaaash,_ we were gonna watch a movie…”

“Yeah, Wash,” Tucker says. “We were gonna watch a _movie_.”

“I’ll come over tomorrow,” Wash says. “It’s getting late, anyway.”

“We’ll stop by a CVS on the way home,” Tucker says casually. “Pick up some aloe there. Then there will be a bottle at our place, too.”

“That’s stupid,” Junior says, rolling his eyes in a motion that’s entirely Tucker.

Tucker puts his hands on his hips. “It’s not stupid! It’s being _smart,_ Wash needs his aloe so his pasty skin doesn’t fall off his body in sheets.”

“It’s _stupid_ ,” Junior says, with the air of explaining that one plus one makes two, “’cause if Wash _lived_ with us, then he wouldn’t need two of _everything_.”

Junior chooses that moment to climb into the back seat of Tucker’s truck and close the door, leaving Tucker and Wash staring at each other in the parking lot. Wash is certain that Junior didn’t intend to make such a dramatic exit, but he couldn’t have planned it better if he tried.

“It’s okay,” Wash says quickly, when Tucker gapes at him like a fish out of water. “That wasn’t—I don’t—you don’t have to say anything.”

“So you _don’t_ want to move in?” Tucker asks.

“Well—I mean, I didn’t say _that_ —”

“So you _do?_ ”

“I—I didn’t say that either,” Wash stammers. “I’m just—”

“Because like, Junior has a point,” Tucker says. He’s fidgeting with his car keys in a way that’s rather unlike him and Wash tries not to stare. “You do have two of everything—two toothbrushes, and two jugs of that weird protein you like, and two orthopedic pillows because you’re a weirdo—”

“It hurts my neck to use another pillow!”

“—and now two bottles of aloe vera which is like, the _stupidest_ thing to have two of.” Tucker shrugs so theatrically that he drops his keys on the ground and hastily scoops to pick them up. “Like. I’m just saying.”

“I…” Wash sneaks a glance at the car, where Junior has his face pressed up against the window. “I…have nightmares.”

Tucker gives him a look. “Yeah, dude, I _know_ that. I’ve been there for them. You’re not _violent,_ you just yell a lot.”

“But…” Wash throws another half-glance at the car again, and Tucker follows his gaze, tugging Wash away from the car and dropping his voice.

“Dude, Junior’s been home when you’ve woken up yelling before too, remember? And you’ve been there when _he_ wakes up scared.” Tucker shrugs. “I think it’s part of why he likes you so much. You’re way better at calming him down than I am.”

“That’s not true,” Wash protests. “You do a great job—“

“I know, I know,” Tucker says impatiently. “I’m just _saying,_ you can relate to him in a way that I can’t. He loves you too, you know.”

It takes a moment for Tucker’s words to sink in but when they do, Wash’s eyes fly open wide. “Too?”

Tucker runs a hand through his dreads and shrugs, still fidgeting but unafraid to meet Wash’s eyes. “What, do I need to spell it out for you?”

Wash swallows. “Uh. Maybe?”

“’Kay.” Tucker straightens, leans in, and kisses Wash full on the mouth. “I love your dramatic ass and I want you to move in with me so you can be dramatic at me and my kid all the time. Yes or no?”

“I….” Wash blinks back at Junior, who has now cracked the car door open a little. “Don’t you think we should think about this for a while?”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Tucker says. “I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while, but apparently my kid has more guts than I do, so. No. I don’t need to think about it. I want you to say yes, and I want you to come home, with me. With _us._ If that’s what you want, too.”

“Oh,” Wash says. He doesn’t fight the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Can we get the aloe first?”

 _There_ it is, one of those big grins that Wash wants to tuck away and keep safe forever. Tucker whoops, wrapping his arms around Wash and swinging him in a circle, and then Junior is there, tugging at their shirts. “Did he say yes? Did he? Did you say yes?”

Wash picks him up, the grin that stretches across his face so big that it hurts. “I said yes.”

It’s one of the best he’s had in _any_ lives, this moment here. Wash closes his eyes as their laughter rings around him before forcing them open and soaking it in, the ridiculous dance of joy that Tucker and Junior are doing around the parking lot. He doesn’t want to miss it.

He doesn’t want to forget a single thing.

* * *

 

The day after Wash turns his key into the landlord—the first _official_ night that he’s living with Tucker and Junior—Wash walks into the living room with a final duffel bag full of clothes to see Tucker and Junior passed out on the couch. His breath catches in his throat, taking it in: Junior tucked against his father’s side, the plated dinner cooling on the counter, the side of Tucker’s face smushed against the couch. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible, but they both wake anyway, two pairs of bleary brown eyes blinking up at him.

Tucker yawns, stretching his arms out over his head. “You’re home. Dinner’s on the counter.” He grins. “Yeah, you _like_ that? All domestic and shit?”

Wash rolls his eyes, but he kisses Tucker on the forehead anyway and gives Junior a fist bump. “Thanks, Tucker. You don’t have to cook for me.”

“Uh, yes I _do?_ Trust me dude, it’s for my benefit. If I have to watch you eat microwavable dinners every night, it might _actually_ kill me.”

“They’re _gross,”_ Junior adds in a long-suffering tone, so Wash takes a seat at the breakfast bar and dutifully eats his dinner. Junior falls asleep right there at the counter, so Wash scoops him up and carries him into his room. He places Junior’s stuffed favorite stuffed alien toy under his arm and tucks the blankets around his body with neat military precision, because Junior told him once he felt safest when the blankets felt tight.

Wash turns to see Tucker watching him from the doorway, and when they exit Junior’s room Tucker pulls him into his own room. _Into_ their _room,_ Wash thinks, as Tucker quite literally jumps him, leaping into Wash’s arms and wrapping his legs around his waist. “Welcome home, baby,” he croons into Wash’s ear as they tumble back onto the bed.

Wash’s head swims with the push of too many years, but he lets Tucker’s weight ground him, focuses on the press of his lips and the grind of his hips. The _welcome home_ whispers through his head like wind through empty hallways, and Wash holds onto it, and to Tucker, as Tucker kisses him, holds him, fucks him, Wash’s name a trembling sigh on his lips.

_Welcome home, welcome home, welcome home._

* * *

 

It starts as a headache, right in the center of his skull.

“It’s just the heat,” Tucker tells him, as he flops onto the floor in nothing but his boxers. “Dude, stop fiddling with that, the Landlord said it’ll be fixed tomorrow.”

Wash turns from where he’s cleaning out the air ducts in the apartment, frowning. “The Landlord _also_ said we’d be without air conditioning for two days. It’s been a week.”

“So get out of the house,” Tucker says crankily. “Wash, _seriously._ Go see Carolina or something while I’m at work.”

“I’m fine,” Wash says staunchly. “I’m just glad Junior doesn’t have to deal with this.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, sounding rather glum, and Wash doesn’t blame him. Junior has spent nearly an extra week at his mother’s now, ever since the air conditioning broke, and while Wash is grateful he’s more comfortable than they are, he misses Junior too. “Dude. As hot as this whole maintenance man thing is, you need to stop.”

Wash sighs, climbing down off the ladder and standing over Tucker with his arms folded. “It’s not just the heat.”

“Huh?”

“This…headache.” Wash gestures vaguely at his head. “I think something’s wrong."

Tucker sits up immediately, looking at him in alarm. “What, like in your head? Should we go to the hospital?”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s…” Wash hesitates until Tucker’s fingers wrap around his wrist, and he tugs Wash onto the floor with him. “I just have a bad feeling.”

“Okay, well, what’s it about?”

“Don’t go to work,” Wash blurts. “I just—I have a bad feeling. I don’t want you to go.”

Tucker looks at him, exasperated. “Wash, I _have_ to go to work.”

“No, you don’t,” Wash insists. “I’ll—I’ll pick up some extra shifts at the gym or something.”

“Dude, I can’t just call out. It’s a Saturday night and the bar is gonna be packed. I can’t leave them hanging.”

“I hate that bar,” Wash says. He tries not to sound sulky, but knows he’s failed when Tucker’s eyes narrow. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I hate that you work there.”

“I _know,_ Wash,” Tucker snaps, “because you tell me _all the time_.”

“I do not—”

“Yes, you _do_. You think it’s a shitty job and you think I’m like, setting a bad example for my kid or some shit—”

Wash’s mouth falls open. “I _never_ said that!”

“But you _think_ it.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Wash snaps. “I think you’re a great Dad and you know that.”

“Whatever,” Tucker mutters, and makes to stand.

Wash pulls him back down. “Tucker, come on.”

“I’m sorry,” Tucker sighs. “Look, it’s just— _I_ think I’m setting a bad example for my kid, alright? I wanna do better, too. I’ve just been bartending for so long and I don’t even know where I’d fucking start.”

“You have a job,” Wash says firmly. “You have a job, and you take care of Junior.”

Tucker looks at him, with that open vulnerability in his eyes that’s so achingly familiar. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You take care of _me,_ too.”

Tucker visibly brightens at that, mouth curving into a smile, eyes softening. “Someone has to.”

“That bar just makes me nervous, is all.”

“I know.” Tucker pauses. “I still have to go to work, though.”

Wash sighs, the anxiety creeping over him once again. “Will you just—text me, throughout the night?”

Tucker frowns. “You’re really worried, huh?”

When Wash just nods, Tucker scoots a little closer. “So is this like, some past life thing?”

“I don’t know,” Wash says slowly. “I mean, it’s not as if I can see what’s _going_ to happen, only things that _have_ happened.”

He flushes the way he always does when saying things like that, things that he _knows_ sound ridiculous, but Tucker just nods. “Is there something familiar about this? Me going to work?”

“No,” Wash says. “I mean, not like—not like _this._ But I think…I think you once went to do something, and you got…you got hurt…I don’t know. It’s so _fuzzy_."

Tucker kisses him once before standing. “I’m not gonna get hurt, dude. I’m just going to work, like I do _all the time_. It’ll be fine. Seriously, you and Church should get the fuck out of this building and go hang out with Carolina and Vanessa. They’ve got plenty of room.”

Wash makes a face at that, and is too late in hiding it. Tucker rolls his eyes. “Man, why do you hate Church so much?”

“I don’t _hate_ him!” Wash protests. “I just…he bugs me.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“Sorry,” Wash sighs. “I know he’s your friend, and Junior loves him, so…I’ll try to….behave.”

Tucker grins. “ _Behave,_ huh? Does that mean I get to spank you if you don’t?”

Wash throws a pillow at him to try to hide the spectacular way his face flushes, but judging from the way Tucker snickers, he suspects he was unsuccessful. “Did you know him in a past life, too?”

“Church?” Wash pauses, thinking. “I’m…not sure. Maybe.”

“It would make sense,” Tucker says sagely, and wanders out of the room to shower and get dressed.

Wash paces the entire time Tucker’s in the shower and forces himself to stop when Tucker bounds back into the living room. He kisses Wash good-bye and Wash has to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from latching onto Tucker’s arm and keeping him from leaving.

 _It will be fine,_ he tells himself, resuming his pacing around the room _. It will be fine._

* * *

 

It starts as a headache and morphs into something worse, something heavy inside his skull. Wash tries to sleep, phone at full volume and tucked under his pillow just in case, but when his sleep ends in fitful dreams, he gives up. He does a series of push-ups and pull-ups in the apartment hallway until the heat becomes too stifling, and he has to take a cold shower. He moves to the kitchen, for some water and the dinner that Tucker left him. It’s one of his favorites, chicken alfredo, but the nausea in his stomach and tension in his head strips any appetite he may have had.  

Wash taps his fork against the bowl and stares at the clock. 2:30 a.m. The bar should be closing now, Tucker cleaning up and ready to go home. Wash grabs his phone and fires off a quick text: _You on your way?_

The minutes tick by and Wash stares at his phone, willing it to light up, but there’s nothing. _Nothing._ Maybe he should go down there, maybe he should call, maybe—

All at once, the heavy ache inside his head turns to something sharp and insistent, and the fork falls from his hands with a clatter. It takes Wash several moments to realize that he’s on the floor, head pressed into the cool linoleum, something pushing against the walls of his mind. Wash closes his eyes, blocks out the rest of the word, and lets it in.

_“I don’t like it.”_

_He can’t see Tucker’s face through his helmet, but the dramatic roll of his head is indicative enough of the expression he’s wearing. “Yeah, well, guess what? I didn’t like_ your _fucking plan either! And mine makes sense, so. That’s what we’re doing.”_

_Wash grinds his teeth together. “Tucker—it’s too risky. You could get killed.”_

_“Oh, what, and your stupid plan wasn’t risky? Because, there was like a nine thousand percent chance that you and Carolina would both get killed.”_

_“That’s different.”_

_Tucker actually shoves him then, hard enough that Wash stumbles backwards. “It’s_ not _fucking different, Wash! Jesus Christ! I’m—I’m doing this. Okay? I’m doing this, and it’s gonna work.”_

_As much as Wash hates to admit it, he knows that Tucker’s right, and that this is the best chance they’ve got. “Fine. But you’re taking the healing unit.”_

_“Bullshit I am.”_

_“Tucker—”_

_“Wash,_ no _. I’m not taking the fucking healing unit! I have all of our guys backing me up_ and _Church to help me. You are gonna be facing off against Locus alone. You’re keeping it.”_

_“I am not.”_

_“Yes, you_ are _.” Tucker backs away from him then, as if Wash is actually going to grab the healing unit and shove it forcefully into his suit. At this point, he just might. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go prepare myself to go be a goddamn hero. Don’t think we’re done with this conversation, either.”_

_He stalks off, and Wash huffs. “Tucker—”_

Tucker.

“Tucker,” he mutters, before lifting his head up off the floor, crawling across the kitchen, and vomiting into the trash can. _Tucker, Tucker, Tucker._ He has to get to him. He has to get to the—

_—radio tower—_

—to the bar, now, before it’s too late.

Wash bites back another wave of nausea and forces himself to his feet, grabbing his wallet and car keys. He flings open the apartment door and comes face to face with Church.

“I saw your light was on,” Church says, by way of explanation.

Wash stares. “Why are you awake?”

“Why are _you_ awake?” Church asks defensively. When Wash doesn’t answer, he clears his throat. “Alright, look, it’s hot as balls in this building, and I was thinking we could like, grab some beer and go crash at Carolina’s and Ness’s since neither of us are fucking sleeping anyway…” Church trails off, looking Wash up and down. “Uh, are you okay?”

“I think something’s wrong with Tucker,” Wash blurts, desperation forcing the words from him with little heed for how they sound. He shoves past Church and starts down the hall, but Church grabs his arm.

He holds his hands up as Wash throws his arm off. “Whoa, okay, just calm the fuck down. What happened? Did he call you?”

“No, it’s just a….” Wash hesitates. “Just a feeling.”

The concern on Church’s face vanishes as he rolls his eyes, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Wash, relax. _I’ll_ call him.”

“He’s at work,” Wash protests, but Church already has the phone up to his ear. “He isn’t going to answer his phone, I already tried him…”

The seconds stretch on, and Wash can faintly hear the cheerful beginnings of Tucker’s stupid voicemail message. “Probably just busy,” Church says, scrolling through his phone. “I’ll call Kai, she’s working tonight, too.”

“You do that,” Wash says, already starting down the hallway again. “I’m going down there.”

“Going down— _Wash,_ you can’t just go down there like a crazy person!” Church jogs to catch up at him and makes another little grab for Wash’s arm. “Just hold on—”

Wash wrenches his arm away again, whirling to face him so fast that Church smacks into him. “Epsilon, we don’t have _time_ for this! We have to go, _now!_ The longer that we stand here—”

“What did you just call me?”

Wash freezes, thinking back. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean—”

_“What did you just call me?”_

They stare at each other, appraising and uncertain. Church has his eyes narrowed, but not as if he’s angry, more like—

More like he’s trying to _remember._

“Epsilon,” Wash says. “I called you Epsilon.”

_“Why?”_

“I don’t know.”

Their voices have dropped nearly to a whisper, and Wash feels suddenly cold despite the nearly suffocating heat of the season. A door slams somewhere on the floor above them, and they both jump, Church clearing his throat. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Wash says dumbly, shaking the fog from his head.

“To see _Tucker,_ you idiot,” Church snaps. “And _I’m_ driving. You drive like a grandma in that tin bucket, Jesus _Christ._ ”

* * *

 

The bar parking lot is nearly empty when they pull up to it, and Wash is throwing open the door to Church’s Corvette before he’s even brought it to a full stop. “Hang on, you manic!” Church yells, whipping them into a parking spot. He had, Wash must admit, gotten them here in record time. Wash vaults out of the car and Church isn’t far behind, the two of them running to the door.

Wash knows something’s wrong the second he approaches the door and finds it locked, and tugs frantically at the bolted door before Church catches up and grabs his arm. “Wash! Calm the fuck down! They’re just closing up!”

“Have to get in,” Wash mutters, casting his eyes around frantically. “Have to—”

His gaze lands on a large rock a little ways from the front door, and, ignoring Church’s protests, he heaves the whole thing through the front window. The glass shatters, and when Wash makes to climb in through the window, Church grabs the back of his shirt. “ _Wash_ —”

Wash whirls around, shoving him back. “Church _, stop!_ We have to get in there—”

“I _know!_ ” Church huffs. “Hold on for a second—you’re gonna slice your arms all up, Jesus…”

He picks up another rock and knocks away some of the glass still stuck in the windowpane before carefully climbing through. “See?” he says, exasperated, as Wash climbs through after him. “Hey, Tucker?”

But there is no answer form Tucker, because the bar is—

“Empty,” Wash whispers. The first-floor bar and club are deserted, no sign of Tucker or Kai or anyone else. “They’re—they’re not here.”

“They’re probably upstairs,” Church says, the faintest hint of worry creeping into his tone “There’s a second-floor bar—”

Wash is already dashing across the empty room. His heart leaps into his throat as he gets closer to the staircase and the sound of raised voices finally reaches them. He hears Church curse behind him as they hurry up the stairs and crash into the bar.

Wash takes in the scene with a clinical precision, born from years of law enforcement experience. Tucker and Kai and two men that he does not recognize. They are both wearing black jeans and jackets, faces bare. One with a thin, narrow face, body lithe and wiry; the other stocky and strong with a thick jaw and long ponytail tied back. No guns. Tip jar spilled all over the ground. Kai on her hands and knees, lip split open, and as Wash watches, the man with the ponytail wraps a hand in her hair and pulls her back on her feet. Tucker—Tucker looks woozy, an angry cut over his eyebrow, the beginnings of a black eye, shirt ripped slightly at the collar. The smaller man has him pushed up against the wall, but Tucker’s gaze is fixed on Kai and he hardly seems to be paying attention to his assailant. Tucker jerks forward as Kai lets out a yelp, pushing away the man holding him and reaching to grab an empty beer bottle off a nearby table.

It happens so fast that Wash would have missed it, had he not been trained to see it. As Tucker swings the beer bottle at his assailant, the man ducks under his arm, something glinting in his hand.   _Knife,_ Wash’s brain screams at him, but it’s too late, the man curls a hand in Tucker’s shirt, yanks him close, and sinks the knife into his abdomen.

“I _told_ you,” he murmurs into Tucker’s ear, soft and regretful, “to stay _still.”_

That _voice_ —Wash _knows_ that voice, just as he knows _both_ of these men, but Tucker’s face is crumping in pain, eyes sliding in and out of focus as he sags in his assailant’s arms. His eyes find Wash’s over the man’s shoulder, and lock on just before he falls to the ground.

Wash feels as if he’s floating. He can barely hear the howl that escapes his own throat, but he feels it tear out of him, vicious and agonized. His vision doubles, Tucker in aqua armor and a radio tower on one side, Tucker on the floor of the bar on the other. The feel of Church’s hand, dragging down his shirt, is the only thing tethering him to this reality. He lets it ground him before tearing away, lunging forward and going straight for the man who stabbed Tucker.

Wash has caught him off guard, so his first punch sends the man stumbling. He recovers with a punch of his own, but Wash shakes it off, fueled by a blinding, pulsing anger that he hasn’t felt in years. The man’s partner has joined in as well, but Wash takes a leaf out of Tucker’s book and ducks behind the bar to grab one of the beer bottles, reverses it, and smashes it across the second man’s cheek.

He sinks into the fight, something _more_ than just old law enforcement instincts kicking in. This is something greater: something deadlier, more precise, something almost otherworldly behind his movements. It’s almost _too_ easy, as if this is a choreographed dance he’s done with these men before. He knows how they’re going to move, where they’re going to be, and before long he has them both unconscious on the floor. Wash steals a glance at Tucker on the ground, everything in him desperate to be at his side, but forces himself to strip both of the burglars of their weapons first. His fingers brush across a familiar shape as he reaches into one of their pockets, and he frowns, pulling out a handful of zip-tie handcuffs.

Wash’s stomach goes cold as clenches them in his fist, eyes flicking over to Tucker and Kai. The zip-ties bring a memory from this lifetime to the forefront of his mind, of an aggravated assault case he’d worked on. The call had come in too late, and Wash still remembers how the zip-ties had been so tight around the victim’s wrists that his hands were purple, bloody streaks down his forearms from where he’d struggled.

Wash shakes off the chill, forcing the unpleasant images away, and turns his attention to the task at hand. He secures both of the burglars’ wrists behind their back, then their feet for good measure, and finally, _finally_ , goes to Tucker.

He falls to his knees next to Tucker, where Kai is pressing a bar rag to the bloody wound on his abdomen. The world is silent, his own breathing startling loud in his ears. “Tucker,” Wash gasps. “Tucker, _Tucker_ …”

Tucker is blinking slowly, but his eyes find Wash’s and he lifts a hand. Wash clasps it in one of his own, brushing Tucker’s hair back from his forehead. “You’re okay,” Wash says dumbly. “You’re okay, you’re fine, you’re…”

He pats at his own chest frantically for a few moments without even realizing what he’s looking for _. Healing unit_ , his aching brain supplies helpfully. He should have given it to Tucker, should have slotted it into his armor himself, should have never allowed Tucker to talk him into keeping it. He’s fine, he’s okay, a few broken ribs is nothing but Tucker, _Tucker…_

“Medic,” he mumbles, “We need a medic—someone call the General—we need a Pelican, _now_ —”

“A what?” someone mutters, and Wash remembers all at once that Church is there. Wash glances up to him standing there, cell phone clutched in one hand, cheeks pale as he looks between the three of them. “What the fuck is a pelican?”

A fury that doesn’t quite belong to him surges through Wash, and he can tell that Church sees a flash of it in his eyes. “This is your fault,” Wash spits, and Church takes a step back from him, mouth falling open. “You were supposed to account for his timing, you were…supposed to…”

“My _fault?_ ” Church very nearly shrieks. “Are you— _how is this my fault?”_

“I…I don’t…”

“Wash.”

Wash glances down to where Tucker has curled a hand in his shirt. “S’okay, Wash.”

All at once, the double reality in his head closes, refocuses to one, and there is only Tucker, bleeding out on the floor of a bar. Wash takes a quick, sharp breath. He has to stay here. He has to stay _now._ “You’re okay,” he says firmly to Tucker. He glances up at Church, who is still staring at him indignantly. “Church—I’m sorry, I—I’m just—can you call 9-1-1?”

“Already did, _asshole_ ,” Church snaps. “They should be here any minute.”

“Good…that’s good…” He glances down, terrified, as Tucker’s grip loosens slightly in his shirt. Wash folds his fingers around Tucker’s and helps him hold on, and Tucker’s eyes refocus on his.

“You were right,” he mutters, cracking a smile. “Shouldn’t have gone to work.”

“I should’ve been here sooner,” Wash grits out. His eyes feel hot and wet and Kai and Church are watching them but he doesn’t care. “I’m _always_ ….always too late.”

“You were closer,” Tucker slurs, eyes fluttering. “You were closer, this time.”

“No no, Tucker, _hey_ ,” Wash says, tapping gently at his cheek in alarm. “Tucker, stay with me!”

“M’glad you kept it,” Tucker mutters, eyes cracked open only in tiny slits. “M’glad.”

“Kept…Tucker, kept _what?_ ”

“The healing unit,” Tucker whispers, before his eyes close once more, and do not reopen.

* * *

Things come in flashes, after that. Sirens, cutting through the night. Kai’s face buried in his shoulder the entire ambulance ride there as he strokes her hair. Making the phone call to Junior’s mother, head dropped down between his knees against the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. Scrubbing Tucker’s blood off his hands. Changing into a fresh t-shirt that Church shoves at him. Grif tearing through the hospital doors, pale and shaky as he makes a beeline for Kai, while an uncharacteristically calm Simmons follows behind. The doctor, telling them Tucker is in critical condition. Flashes, all of it, bright and vivid amidst the long, fuzzy stretches of non-descript colors and sounds.

It isn’t until Junior and his mother burst through the emergency room doors that Wash wakes up a little. Junior sprints across the room and throws himself into Wash’s arms, his curly hair tickling the underside of Wash’s chin. Wash wraps his arms around him and breathes deep, and although it’s several minutes until Junior pulls back to look at him, his eyes are dry when he does. “Is Dad okay?”

Something about Junior’s wide, solemn eyes steadies him, and as Wash touches their foreheads together, the world loses some of its fuzzy quality. “The doctors are with him now. They’re doing everything they can to—”

“Is he going to die?”

Wash meets his eyes. “Right now, your father is alive. Okay? The doctors are going to come out and give us an update as soon as they have one. Let’s not worry until we have to.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder and glances up to see Junior’s mother, Keisha, standing over them. Wash’s catches her hand and gives it a little squeeze as she smooths a hand through Junior’s hair. “Jun, why don’t you go help Uncle Church bring some stuff in from the car? I brought a few things for your father.”

“Come on, kiddo,” Church says, cluing in at once. Junior takes his hand, but hesitates, looking suspiciously between Wash and Keisha.

“Are you trying to get me to leave because Dad’s really dead and you don’t want me to know?”

“Of course not,” Wash says firmly. “We wouldn’t lie to you about that, Junior.”

Junior glances between him and his mother. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Junior nods reluctantly, but allows Church to lead him gently out of the emergency room. Keisha lets out a trembling breath as soon as he walks through the doors, eyes bright as she turns to Wash. “What happened?”

Wash tells her. She doesn’t interrupt once during his story, not even to ask why Wash felt a burning need to get to the bar in the first place. When he finishes, all she asks is, “Did they get the guys who did it?”

Wash nods, remembering the feeling of the burglar’s nose breaking under his fist with a burst of vindictive pleasure. _Felix and Locus._ Names that he knows, not only from lifetimes past, but from this life as well. The old precinct he’d worked for had been trying to track them down for years for countless burglaries and aggravated assault cases, but had never been able to uncover their real names or identities. “They did.”

Keisha merely clenches her jaw and nods, staring off into space. “I don’t know what Junior’s going to do if—”

Her voice breaks then, and before Wash can do anything, Kai crosses the room from where Grif had been braiding her out of her face, and takes a seat next to Keisha, wrapping her in her arms. “Don’t cry,” she sniffs, despite the tears shining in her own eyes. “You’re too pretty to cry.”

She lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against Kai’s shoulder and Wash pats her back. Kai catches his hand and traps it there and it’s nice, sitting there with other people who love Tucker. He tries to focus on that, as Junior and Church return. He tries to focus on Tucker, and _sending him positive energy,_ as Kai puts it, even though he isn’t sure if he believes in that sort of thing. It’s better than sitting there and letting the guilt consume him.

But it’s difficult with Church glaring at him every time their eyes meet. It isn’t exactly accusatory, the way he’s looking at Wash, but the moment Wash rises and edges away from the group, Church follows him, arms crossed as he leans one shoulder into the wall.

They stand there for nearly a minute in awkward silence and Church says nothing, just continues to pin him with that unwavering gaze until Wash relents. “Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean…I know it wasn’t your fault. That was…out of line.”

“Then _why_ did you say it?”

“I was…upset,” Wash stutters. “I—I was just _saying_ things, Church—”

“Yeah. You were. Things about generals and pelicans and healing units. I wanna know what the _fuck_ you were talking about, and I wanna know _now_.”

“What—can we not do this right _here?_ Right _now?_ ” Wash hisses. “Tucker might be…might be…besides, I don’t _owe you_ an explanation.”

Church grabs his elbow as he turns away. It takes every ounce of Wash’s self-control not to rip his arm off, but he lets Church hold him there, unwilling to draw attention to the two of them. “Oh, _yes_ you do,” Church says lowly. “You just fucking accused me of getting my best friend _stabbed._ You sure as _shit_ owe me an explanation of what the fuck that was all about.”

“I _told_ you, I was just upset—”

“That’s _not_ why you said it.”

Something in his voice gives Wash pause, stops him from surreptitiously trying to tug his arm away. “What is this really about, Church?”

“You called me Epsilon,” Church says after a short pause. “I want to know _why_ you called me that—”

“Are you—is this _really_ the time?!”

“Yes, it’s the fucking time! I want to know why you _called_ me that, and I want to know what the fuck a _pelican_ is, and I want to know why you think it’s my fault that Tucker’s _hurt.”_

“I _don’t_ think it’s your fault!”

“Then _why_ —”

The emergency room doors swing open, and Church stops speaking abruptly. Wash’s heart jumps into his throat as he recognizes one of Tucker’s doctors making her way over to where their group is sitting. Church’s hand is still wrapped around Wash’s elbow, squeezing almost tightly enough to bruise, and he drops it hastily as they both start to move, as if just remembering it was there. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Goodness me, look at all of these people!” The doctor chirps. “Are you _all_ Tucker’s family?”

“Yes,” Keisha says firmly, as Simmons nods. “We are.”

“Wonderful,” she beams, glancing around at them all. “Now, _I’m_ Dr. Grey—you may not remember my name from earlier, but that’s quite alright! I know how stressful these emergency room visits can be—”

“ _Dr. Grey,”_ Wash grits out. He can barely speak over his swelling terror. “How…how is Tucker?”

“Oh! So sorry, I really should have led with that, hmm? Not to worry—Tucker is going to be _juuuust_ fine! Surgery was a _bit_ touch and go there for a while, but he pulled through! Quite a fighter, that Tucker!”

“Got _that_ right,” Church mutters weakly. He drops into the nearest chair, forehead pressed to hands. “Jesus Christ, I’m gonna kill him.”

“Well, now, I’d _really_ rather you didn’t! I did work _awfully_ hard, you know—”

“Can we see him?”

The words leave Wash’s throat as a whisper, and Dr. Grey turns to him. There’s something steady and calming in her gaze, something that unlocks a bit of the tension in his spine. “Of course,” she says, softer. “You sure _can_.”

They have to wait for a few minutes while Tucker is moved from the operating room, and Dr. Grey ushers them inside. Wash’s breath catches in his throat as he sees Tucker. He’s unconscious, IV in his arm and breathing tube under his nose, but he’s alive. For a moment, Wash leans in the doorway and just breathes, trying to steady his hammering heart, torn between a desire to run, and to pull Tucker tight against his chest and protect him always.

He hesitates, reluctant to step any closer into the room and intrude on Tucker’s family. Wash knows, in a surreal sort of way, that that includes _him_ now, too, but still. Everyone in that room has known Tucker for years. Wash has barely known him for ten months, and that fact has never been more apparent than it is now. It isn’t until Junior tears his gaze away from Tucker and glances frantically around the room that Wash steps forward, coming to stand next to Junior.

There’s an empty chair and after a moment he sits in it, wrapping a hand around Tucker’s and holding it gently. He glances up, still a bit uncertain, but no one has reacted in the slightest. It’s as if Wash is _supposed_ to be there, as if it’s only _right_ that his hand is wrapped around Tucker’s, as if he’s _done_ this before—

Wash is too exhausted to fight the memory that floats to the surface: sitting next to Tucker on a strange airplane, wearing strange armor, Tucker’s hand held tightly in his own. He remembers, how even despite the pain and the terror and the _what-ifs_ , even through two layers of armor, his hand had been tingling in all of the places their fingers had been touching.

He lets the memory drift away just as naturally as it came, using Tucker’s palm to anchor him. He doesn’t want to think about armor or Pelicans or healing units or what may have been. He wants to be _here_ , in this room, with Tucker and Junior and the rest of his family, to be surrounded by their laughter and light, and the knowledge that they will pull through this, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >>> [ CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER THREE ART](http://hammeredpaint.tumblr.com/post/158107458975/being-able-to-remember-the-lives-youve-lived-is) <<


	4. Autumn

The dying sun lights up the leaves like fire outside of their apartment window.

Tucker watches a few more of them fall off of their branches, drifting gently to the pavement below as he lowers himself into a seat at the breakfast bar. He places a hand to his stomach automatically, even though the wound is healed and he’s had his stitches out for a while now. _Phantom pain,_ Wash had called it. Tucker had never heard the term before, but it had stuck with him in strange ways. _Ghost pain,_ Junior kept saying, and Tucker thinks he likes that better. Something you felt, and could swear was there, but could never quite prove was real.

The sounds from his apartment pull him from his thoughts, Caboose’s voice the loudest and most insistent sound of all. “So _please,_ Tucker? Please will you? I would appreciate it and it’s your turn to do something nice for me. So please? Please will you? Please—”

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Tucker groans, knocking his forehead against the table. “Fine. Okay? _Fine!_ ”

Caboose positively beams. “Oh! Oh _really,_ Tucker? You will?”

“Yes,” Tucker says, already beginning to regret his answer. “ _Yes,_ we will pet sit for your goddamn dog.”

He turns an apprehensive eye to Caboose’s gigantic pit bull, Freckles, who is lying blissed out on the floor with Junior using him as a pillow as he watches T.V. Wash is sitting on the couch, looking at the two of them fondly and taking about a billion pictures on his phone. Tucker nearly had a heart attack the first-time Caboose had brought Freckles over but, despite being nearly ninety pounds of pure muscle, the dog was the definition of a gentle giant. He absolutely adores Junior, and Junior adores him, and besides, Caboose isn’t a bad guy even if he drives Tucker nuts half the time. 

Caboose drapes himself over Tucker’s shoulders, babbling his thanks. “This is just _so_ great, Tucker! I will leave a book of instructions—”

“You mean a _list_. A _list_ of instructions, not a fucking _book_ —”

“And you can come over four times a day—”

“Four times?!”

“And he will need his heart worm pill on the first of the month so I will leave that out—”

“Whoa, hang on, how the fuck do I give him a pill?!”

“It’s very easy, Tucker,” Caboose says, exasperated. “He will not eat it in a treat, so you just have to open his jaws and put the pill in the back of his throat and—”

Tucker eyes the pit bull’s sizable jaws in alarm. “Caboose, I am _not_ sticking my hand inside that dog’s mouth.”

“I’ll do it!” Junior pipes up. “I’ve put my hand in his mouth before, like if he picks up something he’s not supposed to. Wanna see?”

“No, Junior, I do _not_ want to see!” Tucker says, aghast, as Junior begins to sit up. “Jesus Christ!”

“I’ll give him his pill,” Wash says, finally glancing up from his impromptu photography session. He’s standing on the couch now, trying to get an aerial angle. “Tucker, which Instagram filter looks best?”

“Oh my God,” Tucker says. He stands, taking the phone from Wash and scrolling through the filters critically. “You’re really gonna give that monster his pill?”

“I’ve pilled cats before,” Wash says, peering over Tucker’s shoulder. “Dogs are generally easier to pill. Don’t worry Caboose, it’ll be fine.”

“We can only hope,” Tucker mutters. He passes the phone back to Wash. “Use Mayfair.”

“You think?” Wash scrunches up his face. “I was thinking Sierra or Valencia.”

“Nah, use Mayfair and then you can adjust the brightness and shit, see?”

Tucker opens the little photo editing box and Wash’s face whole face lights up. “You can do that?! Oh, let me see…”

He sits back down on the couch, intrigued, and Tucker watches him with a grin before turning back to Caboose. “What are you going out of town for, anyway?”

“ _I_ ,” Caboose says importantly, “am going to California. There is a very, _very_ important professional dog walker conference going on.”

Tucker eyes him. “And that concerns you because…?”

“Because _I_ am opening my own pet sitting business.”

Several hours later, after Caboose has left with Freckles, and Wash has tucked Junior into bed, Tucker finds himself sitting at their breakfast bar, turning Caboose’s house key over and over in his hands. “A pet sitting business,” he says, for the millionth time. “A _doggie daycare_. In his _house._ ”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Wash says encouragingly. “Caboose has always loved animals.”

“Always or like. You know. _Always?_ ”

Wash’s grin fades slightly, but not in a way that suggests he’s upset. “Let’s go with both,” he says after a pause. “I think this’ll be good for him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tucker says with a sigh. “I just worry about him.”

He doesn’t look up until Wash sets a beer down in front of him and makes himself comfortable in the other breakfast bar chair. “Do you want to know what Freckles was in a previously life?”

“Oh, come on—Caboose had a dog named Freckles in another life?!”

Wash laughs, a mischievous light in his eyes. “Not _exactly_ …”

* * *

 

They wake the next morning to find Church sitting at their breakfast bar, cup of coffee in his hand as he scrolls through his phone. Tucker rolls his eyes, grabbing the coffee pot to pour himself and Wash a cup. “Dude, _really?_ ”

“I’m out of coffee again,” Church says, and after a moment of internal debate, Tucker lets it go. Church has run out of coffee every single morning since Tucker’s injury, in the most transparent attempt to come check on him _ever_. Tucker side-eyes Wash, but as usual, Wash doesn’t say anything, just dumps sugar into his coffee and peers over Church’s shoulder at his phone. “Oh, it’s gonna rain this weekend? That’s nice.” 

“You're so _weird_ ,” Church grumps, turning his phone so that Wash can’t see it. “Who the fuck likes it when it’s forty degrees out and raining? _Christ_.”

“ _I_ do.”

Church rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dude.”

“We promised Caboose we’d walk Freckles as _‘trial run’_ this weekend,” Tucker reminds Wash, making little quotations with his fingers “Can’t say I’m thrilled about walking that beast in the rain.”

Church snickers. “Better you guys than me.”

Tucker snaps his fingers. “That reminds me—did you know Caboose wants to open his own pet sitting business?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

Tucker lifts an eyebrow. “Somehow, I thought you’d have more to say on the subject."

“Oh, I did,” Church says, “when he first came to me about it. But then I started doing some research and I figure, as long as we’ve got all his paperwork in order, like make sure that shit is airtight, then it should be fine.”

“We?”

“Mmmhmm. I’m gonna be his business manager.”

Tucker laughs, but Church doesn’t even glance up from his phone. “You’re _serious.”_

Church flicks his eyes up then, exasperated. “What, like Caboose is gonna keep track of his finances and get waivers drawn up and shit? _Please_.”

“So…so you’re gonna help him walk dogs?! You _hate_ dogs!”

“Of course I’m not going to walk the dogs,” Church snaps. “I said I’m gonna be his _business manager._ It _is_ kind of what I went to college for.”

“Why?” Tucker asks bluntly. “I mean. I’m just surprised you wanna help Caboose.”

Church finally sets down his phone. “ _Because,_ Tucker, even if Caboose is an annoying little shit, that’s what teams do.”

“Teams?”

For some reason, Church’s eyes flick to Wash, who has frozen in the middle of adding even more sugar to his coffee. “ _Friends_ ,” Church says quickly. “I meant friends.”

“Right,” Tucker says, suspicious, as Church and Wash make the biggest production of _not_ looking at each other that Tucker’s ever seen. “ _Riiiight_. Well, anyway, that’s cool. He’s going to some big conference next month, which is why Wash and I are watching his crazy dog. We have to fucking _pill_ this damn thing, can you believe that? Wash says he can do it, which is _crazy_ , but Wash here thinks he’s like an animal whisperer, so…guess I’ll just have to make sure all my shifts at the bar are conveniently scheduled for when the dog needs his—”

Wash drops his spoon into his coffee mug with a clatter, splashing the hot liquid over the sides. “Your shifts at the _what?_ ”

Tucker fights back a wince. He’d been hoping if he just slipped the fact that he was planning to go back to work soon into a random conversation, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Judging by the look on Wash’s face, he could not be more wrong. “Yeah. I’m starting tomorrow night, actually.”

“ _Tomorrow night?”_

Tucker sighs. “Wash, come on. The bills aren’t….”

He hesitates, trying to think of the gentlest way to say that Wash’s job as a personal trainer wasn’t enough. Wash made decent money at the gym, but his hours were sporadic, his clients, rather unreliable. Bartending at Outpost 17 hadn’t been exactly fun, but there was no denying that Tucker’s tip jar was overflowing by the end of every night.

“My medical bills cost a fuckton,” Tucker finally says. “I—it’s my responsibility to pay them—”

“It’s _our_ responsibility,” Wash says firmly. “I—look, I can pick up extra shifts at the gym—”

“You’re already picking up extra shifts at the gym and you’re fucking _exhausted_. What, you’re just gonna like, work out twenty-four hours a day? Be reasonable—”

Wash’s eyes bulge. “Be reasonable? _Be reasonable?!_ You’re telling me that you have every intention of going to work back at the bar where _you almost died_ and you want me to be _reasonable?_ ”

“Uh,” Church ventures. “If anyone wants to know what I think—”

“They don’t,” Wash snaps, and Church huffs.

“Look,” Tucker says calmly, “I hear they’ve really upped security—”

“I don’t _care,_ ” Wash says. “I don’t care if the might of the entire United States military is guarding the entrance! You’re not setting foot back in that bar!”

“Oh, really? So you’re just, what? Gonna _tell_ me what to do? We’re not going to have any sort of conversation about this? You just lay down the law and that’s it?”

“Well, seeing as _you_ weren’t going to have any sort of conversation with _me,_ then yes. That sounds about right.” Wash glares at him. “Were you even going to tell me where you were going when you left tomorrow night?!”

“Of course I was gonna _tell_ you!” Tucker exclaims, wounded. “Don’t be so _ridiculous_ —”

“What’s _ridiculous_ is you going back to work this soon,” Wash says stubbornly. “You’re still _healing_ —”

“I’m healing _fine!_ ” Tucker protests. He tugs up the edge of his t-shirt, revealing the scar that Church pointedly turns away from. “I’m allowed to move around and carry shit and everything!”

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” Wash says evenly.

“Yeah? What _did_ you mean, then?”

Wash bites his lip, but says nothing. He doesn’t need to: Tucker knows that he’s referring to the way that Tucker now thrashes himself awake more often than not, fighting against nightmares he never used to have. The way he wakes in a cold sweat, clutching his stomach, writhing with a ghost pain he knows isn’t real. “I’m fine,” Tucker says. “Look, I’m _doing_ this, alright?”

“And what am I supposed to tell Junior?” Wash challenges. “He worries _every_ time you leave the house and you want me to tell him that you’re going back to that _place?”_

“Oh my God, Wash, he’s _six!_ We don’t have to get into specifics—”

“So, you’re saying we should _lie_ to him, then?”

It ends up being the worst argument they’ve ever had, and Tucker can only be grateful that Junior isn’t around to hear it. Three hours later, long after Church has left, and the neighbor next door has pounded on their door and told them to keep it down, something in Tucker finally snaps. “It’s just such _bullshit!_ ” he yells at Wash, who is on the opposite side of the living room glaring at him. “You don’t even _care_ about me getting stabbed! You care about _past me_ getting stabbed! _You’re_ the one who’s all fucked up about this, not me! You don’t care about _me!_ ”

He regrets the words at soon as they’re out of his mouth, but it’s too late. Everything in Wash deflates: the anger, the indignation, the fear, leaving only a stunned silence.

“You think I don’t care about you?”

“I— _look_ —”

“I _love_ you,” Wash says, and it’s a quiet, pleading little thing that’s far worse than any knife wound to the gut.

“No— _Wash_ —I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” Wash says quietly. “Don’t say you didn’t mean it if you did.”

“I _didn’t!_ ” Tucker protests. “I just… _would_ you be this upset if it hadn’t happened before?”

“ _I watched you get stabbed.”_

“I _know_ , but—”

“ _No_ ,” Wash interrupts, and Tucker’s almost _relieved_ to hear some of the anger creep back into his tone. “No. I watched _you_ get stabbed. _You._ I live with _you_. I love _you._ Past lives or not. I…I thought you knew that.”

“I did—I _do_ —”

“You don’t,” Wash says. “And that’s…that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

Tucker groans, leaning heavily back against the wall and sliding to the floor. After a moment, Wash mirrors him across the room, knees drawn up nearly to his chest. “You’re just so similar, every time,” Wash says, and Tucker goes still. “You’re always so…bright. Loud. Funny. I forget, sometimes, that you’re _this_ Tucker now, and not the others. But you’re….you’re _different,_ too. There’s things that belong to _you_ , in this life, that I love.”

“Like what?” Tucker asks, before he can think to censor the vulnerability in his tone. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that—”

“Music,” Wash says immediately. “I’ve never heard you sing before. Not like that. You love mint chocolate chip ice cream now—you always hated it, before—and you like red wine instead of white. Your favorite color is green. You tie your shoelaces weird, with that double loop thing—”

“That’s not weird!”

“It’s incredibly weird. Junior does it too.”

“What else?” Tucker whispers. “I…what else is different?”

“You like it when I kiss the back of your neck,” Wash says softly. “You’re usually so ticklish there. We live in the city, not by a lake. And…and we only have one kid, instead of four.”

“Four? We had _four_ kids?”

Wash smiles at the memory. “We did, once.”

The silence that falls is thick with memories that Tucker can feel, even though he cannot see them. “Are we soulmates?”

“I don’t know,” Wash says slowly. “I don’t know if I believe in soulmates.”

“You believe in reincarnation but not soulmates?”

“They don’t necessarily go hand in hand.” Wash pauses. “You and I aren’t always…together. Sometimes we’re just friends. Sometimes we only meet in passing.”

“But I’m always there?”

“Yes,” Wash says. “You’re always there. Things are always better once you are. And….and I don’t want to lose you. _You._ Don’t go back to that place. _Please_.”

Tucker sighs, leaning his head against the wall. “We need the money, Wash. And I fucking hate saying that because I know you’re working a fuckton, but—we _need_ a second income.”

“But you can work somewhere else—find another job—”

“We need the money _now._ ”

“We can ask our friends for help,” Wash says. “Just for a loan—”

“No,” Tucker immediately. “Our friends have their own bills to pay.”

“Our friends don’t want you to go _back_ to that _bar_ ,” Wash says, which okay, Tucker can’t really argue that point.

“Alright,” Tucker says after a brief pause. “How about this. I only work there until I find another job. Just a couple shifts and then I’m done.”

Wash sighs. “You should have been looking for another job this whole time, Tucker.”

“I _have_ been! Jobs don’t fall out of the sky, you know!”

Wash glare at him, but he pushes off the floor slowly to cross the room and sit next to Tucker. “Fine. One week. You pick a few shifts for _one week,_ and then that’s _it.”_

“One week? _Seriously_?”

“One week,” Wash repeats stubbornly, “and then you never go back there again.”

“Who the _fuck_ finds a new job in one week, Wash?”

“Lots of people. You’re going to be one of them. I’ll help you.”

“…fine.”

True to his word, Wash throws himself into helping Tucker find a new job with an alarming frenzy that very evening. He fixes up Tucker’s resume, takes his interview suit to the dry cleaners, and applies to at least double the amount of jobs that Tucker himself actually applies for.

“Dude,” Tucker says, peering over his shoulder at Wash’s laptop the next morning. “An administrative assistant? I’ve never even opened Excel.”

“You can do anything you set your mind to, Tucker,” Wash says, a manic gleam in his eye, so Tucker gives it up and lets him apply to seventeen more administrative assistant jobs. He has to bully Wash into eating lunch and when Wash only takes three bites of the sandwich Tucker made, he throws himself into the armchair and texts Kai.

 _Tucker:  wash is driving me crazy_  
_Kai:  oooooo deets_  
_Tucker:  not like that omg_  
_Tucker:  he’s all freaked out bc I go back to work 2nite_  
_Kai:  wait at the bar_  
_Tucker:  yeah_

Several minutes go by before Kai responds:

 _Kai: ????????????????_  
_Kai: ur joking right ????????_  
_Tucker: wait did u quit?_  
_Kai: OF COURSE I QUIT!!!!!_

Tucker tilts his head back to glare at the ceiling. “Ah, shit.”

Wash glances up sharply from where he’s tapping away on his keyboard. “What? Do you have an interview? Where?”

“ _No_ , Wash,” Tucker says, irritated. He glances down at his phone, stomach clenching at Kai’s next text. “Never mind.”

 _Kai: ur not actually gonna go back to the bar where we were almost raped and murdered at_  
_Tucker: omg kai_  
_Tucker: bars get robbed all the time_  
_Kai: U GOT STABBED U MORON!!!!!_

His phone rings then, and Tucker hastily mutes it before Wash can look up. He watches it go to voicemail, then ring again, and again, until Kai gives up and begins texting him furiously.

 _Kai: U ALMOST DIED_  
_Kai: and it wasn’t a robbery_  
_Kai: it was a BURGLARY_  
_Kai: that’s what wash says_  
_Kai: and they weren’t just there for money_  
_Kai: ur an idiot_  
_Kai: did u even read up on those guys?!?!?!_  
_Kai: they were totes crazy_  
_Kai: they were gonna cut us up and put us in their freezer or something_  
_Kai: listen to ur hot boyfriend_  
_Kai: pls_  
_Kai: I don’t want u to go back there_  
   
Tucker ignores his shaking fingers as he taps out a response:

 _Tucker: kai I need the money_  
_Tucker: I have a FAMILY_  
_Kai: I KNOW THAT U IDIOT_  
_Kai: I WILL LEND U MONEY_  
_Kai: SO WILL DEX AND HIS RICH FIANCE_  
_Kai: NO ONE IS GONNA LET U AND WASH AND JUNIOR STARVE!!!!!!!!_  
_Kai: ur not doing this bc of money_  
_Kai: ur trying to prove something_  
_Kai: and it’s stupid and ur stupid and I’m mad at u\_  
   
Tucker turns off his phone with a huff, tossing it onto the coffee table as Wash frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure—”

“Wash, _will you give it a goddamn rest already?!”_

* * *

 

Wash does not give it a rest. He applies Tucker for jobs right up until the point where Tucker is getting ready to walk out the door, and Tucker is half-expecting to be bodily restrained. Wash doesn’t restrain him, but he does hug him long and tight, and kisses him so sweetly that Tucker almost _does_ stay. “I’ll be fine,” he tells Wash. “Come on, _please_ stop looking at me like that. I’ll text you all night, okay?”

Wash’s haunted face stays with Tucker the entire ride to the bar. He wants to be sympathetic, but he can only muster up various levels of annoyance. It’s because of _Wash_ that he’s feeling so uneasy, Wash and his endless paranoia. Tucker wouldn’t be giving this a second thought if Wash hadn’t gotten all freaked out. Kai, too. She hasn’t said anything to him since they were texting yesterday, but her pointed silence says more than words ever could.

“They’re being _stupid_ ,” Tucker mutters as he pulls into the parking lot. “So…fucking…stupid…”

He’s a bit early, so he parks his truck and sits there for a while. There are only a few other cars in the parking lot that he recognizes as belonging to the managers and other bartenders getting ready for their shifts, and a few he doesn’t know at all. New people, he supposes. There had been a mass exodus of employees after what happened to him and Kai. Tucker had found it baffling at first that they were able to find new help so quickly, but then again, the tips made at Outpost 17 were legendary. It’s why Felix and Locus had chosen that bar to rob, and why Tucker had first started working there.

 _And why you need to go in there_ now _,_ he tells himself firmly _. Get your ass in there and go make some money for your family._

His family. Junior was at his mother’s tonight, which meant that Wash was probably pacing their apartment and checking his phone every five minutes. Either that or he’d followed Tucker to the bar to keep an eye on him. Tucker finds himself twisting around in the driver’s seat despite himself, looking for Wash’s beat-up Honda in a corner of the lot.

But there is no beat-up Honda, no sign of Wash lurking between buildings. Tucker finds himself momentarily disappointed before giving himself a mental slap. What was he expecting, for Wash to forcibly drag him out of that bar? To block the entrance, throw Tucker over his shoulder, and drag him home? He didn’t need that to happen. He didn’t _want_ that to happen because he was _fine—_

But he can’t stop thinking about Wash, and the way he’d looked when Tucker had gotten dressed for work this evening, shrugging on a new black button down because his last button down was ruined, cut through with a knife and soaked with blood—

Tucker shoves open the car door hard, half-stumbling out onto the pavement. Fine. He’s _fine._ He just needs some fresh air, and a quick stroll around the parking lot, and he’s good to go. He needs to not imagine the look on Wash’s face, or the way he’d pleaded with Tucker not to leave, or the way he’d _howled_ when he’d turned the corner just in time to see the knife sink into Tucker’s stomach, screamed like he was the one who’d been stabbed, like his very soul was being ripped from his body—

_The bar is spinning around him, dingy and dark, so why does he keep seeing flashes of an afternoon sky? Why are the edges of his vision filled with bright colors, blue sky and twisting silver towers and orange and grey armor? Why does Church’s voice sound so very close in his ear, begging him to stay alive, when he can clearly see that Church is standing protectively over him, yelling at the paramedics to hurry the fuck up? Why is Wash fighting Felix when he’s supposed to be fighting Locus, and why is he out of his armor?_

_Tucker closes his eyes, trying to ground himself, to think around the pain, but Kai’s hands pat frantically against his cheeks. “No no, Tucker! Keep looking at me, c’mon! You’re—you’re gonna be okay—”_

_She lifts one of his hands to her lips, the other one pressing the bar rag into his stomach, and Tucker tries to keep his gaze locked onto her tearstained face. Kai hadn’t shown an inch of fear when the men had broken into the bar, not even when one of them had hit her, but she looks terrified now. “You better not die on me,” she whimpers, and he tries to nod, to tell her that he won’t, but everything is so fuzzy._

_The world changes between blinks, from the dark bar, to the strange world with all its colors. Kai is telling him he has to keep his eyes open. Felix is asking him what helmet cam. Church is pacing anxiously above him, phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Carolina’s voice is soothing over the radio, telling him to hold on. Wash is stumbling to the ground next to him, ripping the healing unit out of his armor with shaking hands—_

_Wash. Wash is here, gasping his name, pushing his hair back, folding one of Tucker’s hands into his own. Wash is here, which means that things are okay, that they’re fine. “Medic,” he mumbles, “We need a medic—someone call the General—we need a Pelican, now—”_

_But Tucker doesn’t know what world Wash says that in because he says it in both, in the bar, at the radio tower and it doesn’t matter because Wash is_ here _and he’s okay and Tucker’s grateful, so grateful that he forced him to keep the healing unit—_

A car horn blares, jolting Tucker out of his memories. For several long, terrifying moments, he has no idea where he is. He’s sitting on the pavement in the alleyway between the bar and the chain link fence marking the property line, back pressed tightly to the brick building, with absolutely no memory of how he got there, car keys clutched in his shaking hands. Tucker checks his phone and realizes with a jolt of horror that he’s fifteen minutes into his shift, fifteen minutes that he cannot recall no matter how desperately he searches his memory. How long had he stood in front of the building? Had he gone inside, or spoken to anyone? How did he get _over_ here?

The lost time terrifies him more than any memories that he can’t explain, and he realizes that his breath is coming in short, punched out gasps. He has to get _out_ of here— this was stupid, coming to this place. Why is he always so _stupid?_ He shouldn’t be here; he should be at home with Wash on their couch watching a silly movie and taking selfies and drinking wine.

Tucker pulls out his phone with shaking fingers, staring at Wash’s name in his contact list. He knows that Wash will come get him in a heartbeat, knows that Wash would never say _I told you so_ or think of him as weak, but Tucker is filled with a sudden shame nonetheless. Wash would have been able to handle this. He would’ve gone into that bar to complete his shift and get his tips.

Wash would’ve been able to take care of his family.

Tucker scrolls to Kai’s name instead, thumb hovering over the call button. His breathing is still loud and ragged, and he isn’t sure if he can talk just yet, so he fires off a text instead: _can u come get me?_

The little dots of someone typing back appear immediately, and her message pops up on his screen:

 _Kai: where ru_  
_Kai: ru okay??_  
_Tucker: yeah_  
_Tucker: at the bar_  
_Tucker: around the side_  
_Kai: k im coming dont move_

Tucker keeps the phone clenched tightly in his hand until he hears her pull into the lot ten minutes later, wheels screeching. She parks across three spots and doesn’t bother slamming her car door, just sprints around the side until she’s in front of him, squatting down on his level.

“I can’t,” he gasps as she looks him over, eyes obviously searching for an injury. “I can’t do it, Kai, I can’t…”

“I know,” she says, nodding vigorously. “I _know,_ Tucker. Did you go in at all yet?”

Tucker shakes his head, and she holds out her hand. He frowns. “What?”

“Give me your keys,” she says. “I’m gonna go quit for you.”

“But—”

She snatches the keys out of his hand anyway, squares her shoulders, and marches into the bar. It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, how she doesn’t even hesitate at the entrance of the place that scared her so badly, just shoulders open the door. “Hey _assholes_!” Tucker hears her yell, before the door swings shut and cuts off her voice.

She’s back less than five minutes later, a triumphant look on her face and something clutched tightly in her hand. “Here,” she says, pressing it in his palm. “Something to get you guys started.”

Tucker glances down to find a wad of cash in his hand. “How did you get this?”

“I told them they _had_ to give it to you,” Kai says, tossing her hair. “Like, five hundred bucks is the _least_ they can do. And they know you won’t be coming back, either. Good riddance.”

He shakes his head, trying to give it back to her.  “No—we should split it—”

“We don’t _need_ to split it, dummy.” She folds his fingers over it, squeezing them around the money. “I already have a sweet new gig lined up. You’ve got like, a kid and a boyfriend to take care of.”

Tucker swallows hard, his stomach dropping further still. “Fuck, I’m—I need to go in there, I need the money, I’m—”

“No!” she grabs his arm when he makes to stand. “You’re not going in there, Tucker!”

“I have to take care of them,” Tucker says wildly. “Kai, they’re my _family_ —I have to take care of them—”

He startles when she reaches out and grabs his face, directing his gaze to her. “Tucker, _breathe_! It’s gonna be okay!”

“It’s not—what am I gonna tell Wash? He’s gonna be so disappointed in me—”

“He is _not_!” she protests. “He’s gonna be _soooo_ happy that you’re not going back in there! Tucker, come on, you’re not breathing and it’s scaring me…”

He just shakes his head, closing his eyes. She slips one hand into his own, pulling him to his feet. He makes it halfway to a stand and collapsing back down, trembling. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, just…give me a minute.”

“Tucker,” she whimpers, kneeling in front of him again. “You’re really freaking me out. I’m calling Wash.”

He doesn’t argue this time, just drops his head onto his knees. Her phone call to Wash is brief, and when she finishes she rests her head briefly on top of his own. “He’s coming and bringing Church.”

“Why the _fuck,”_ Tucker groans, “is he bringing Church?”

“So he can drive your car back! You know they’ll tow that shit!”

Tucker wants to argue—wants to be stronger than this, to prove that he can take care of his family, but right now, he doesn’t think he can even take care of himself. He leans his head back against the rough brick of the building, closing his eyes, and when Kai slips her hand into his, he does not pull away.

They do not speak while waiting for Wash and Church, just sit there in a weary silence until Kai starts humming a little. Tucker listens to sounds, letting them ground him a bit, and when he hears the sound of Wash’s squeaky Honda pull into the parking lot, his eyes are still closed.

A car door slams, and Tucker hears Church’s voice, thick with annoyance. “—never getting in a car with you _again_ , holy _shit_ …”

Tucker finally opens his eyes when he feels hands on his face to see Wash crouching in front of him. “I couldn’t do it,” he blurts as soon as their eyes lock. “I—I couldn’t, I just _couldn’t_ —I’m _sorry_ —I should’ve—”

“Don’t,” Wash says, and Tucker nods. Wash’s hands drift up and down his arms absently. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Tucker mutters. “I just—wanna go home.”

“Then let’s go home,” Wash says.

He pulls Tucker to his feet, slinging his arm over his shoulder. Church holds out a hand expectantly. “Keys?”

Tucker hands them over, unable to meet Church’s eyes. “Thanks.”

“Shut up,” Church snaps, and stomps over to his car while Tucker watches, bewildered.

“He was worried about you,” Wash says by way of explanation as he leads Tucker over to his Honda.

Tucker braces himself for questions or words of comfort on the way back, but Wash doesn’t say a word. He just rolls the windows down and cranks the music up loud. After three songs in a row that Tucker adores, he gives Wash’s shoulder a little nudge. “What Pandora station is this?”

“Oh,” Wash says, ears turning a little pink. “It’s, uh. Not a station. I made you a playlist.”

Tucker’s heart lightens at once, grabbing for Wash’s phone. “You made me a mix tape?!”

“I—Tucker, no one makes mix tapes anymore! I made you a playlist! It’s not a big deal—”

“A _mix_ - _tape_ ,” Tucker repeats, scrolling through the songs. “Holy shit. My hot boyfriend made me a mix-tape. This is everything I’ve ever wanted out of life.”

“You can add stuff to it if you like—”

“Nope. It’s perfect,” Tucker says, but what he really means is _marry me._

They’re home all too soon. Kai and Church are already waiting in the apartment, and the four of them pile onto the couch and watch a movie. Tucker leans his head on Wash’s shoulder and listens to them bicker and laugh and joke around him. They do not talk about the knife or the bar or the job that Tucker doesn’t have. Church leaves to grab a bottle of bourbon from across the hall, and they pass it back and fourth among the four of them, until they are warm and sleepy and heavy, and Tucker feels safe.

So very safe.

* * *

 

  _He is bleeding at the center of a circle._

_The room is dark and dim, and it takes him a while to notice through the pain that the circle is made up of people. Some of them are watching impassively, and others are fighting to get to him, but it’s as if they are held back by a glass wall. He sees Wash, fighting desperately to break though, and Kai, her big tearstained eyes locked onto his. Tucker wants to tell them that it’s okay, he’s getting up, he’s fine—_

_But it’s not okay, and he can’t get up, and he isn’t fine._

_He has both hands pressed into the wound in his gut, hands slick with blood as he fights to stay conscious. Felix paces around him, tossing the knife that had been inside him moments before from hand to hand. He’s talking and that’s—that’s good because it’s the whole point. Tucker has to keep him talking, so that they can get the information and Church can—_

_Tucker closes his eyes for a moment, confused. He’s—he’s got it wrong. There’s no radio tower, he’s in a bar, he doesn’t have to do anything. He can just—_

_His heart leaps to his throat, as he catches sight of Junior at the edge of the circle. Junior is watching something, mouthing words that he can make out but not hear: get up, get up, get up. Tucker wants to get up—he has people on the edge of that circle that he has to go to—but it’s as if his limbs aren’t listening to him. Felix is standing over him now, dropping to one knee, tapping the bloody knife thoughtfully against his knee, he’s going to kill Tucker and he’s going to take his time about it. The first touch of the knife to his cheek has Tucker trying to thrash, but it’s as if his limbs have locked up and he can’t move—_

“Tucker! Tucker, wake up!”

Wash is leaning over him, his strong hands steady on Tucker’s shoulders, and Tucker wrenches himself out of the nightmare at once. Nightmare. That’s all it was. He’s fine. _Fine._

It doesn’t stop him from fisting his hands in Wash’s shirt, and he lets Wash pull him tightly to his chest. “It’s okay,” Wash murmurs. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you—”

“I know,” Tucker gasps into his shoulder “I know, I know, I know— _fuck,_ did I scream? Did I—”

“No,” Wash whispers. “No, don’t worry, Junior’s still asleep. You were just thrashing.”

Wash holds him a little longer before pulling back, fingers trailing down to Tucker’s stomach, dancing over the scar. “It’s fine,” Tucker tells him. “Doesn’t hurt. Just a shitty nightmare.”

All at once, he feels embarrassed, yesterday’s events come rushing back to him: how he’d tried to go into work and panicked so badly that he’d lost time and Wash and his friends had to come pick him up. It was so _stupid_ —the break-in had been months ago now and he should be over it. He shouldn’t be having nightmares, shouldn’t need people to take care of him, shouldn’t—

“Stop,” Wash says, and Tucker doesn’t know if he said all of that out loud or if he really is that expressive or if Wash just knows him that well. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Tucker snorts. “Whatever.”

“Tucker, you _don’t._ ”

“I keep….” Tucker hesitates. “Never mind.”

Wash pulls back to look at him. “Keep what?”

“It’s gonna sound stupid.”

Wash gives him a look, and Tucker knows immediately what he’s thinking. “None of the stuff _you’ve_ told me is stupid, dude. It’s not the same thing”

“Okay, then,” Wash says, “you can tell me this.”

Tucker sighs, but as usual, Wash’s intense, trusting focus wins him over. “It’s like…it’s _over,_ ya know? There was a robbery…burglary?” Wash nods. “A burglary, and I got caught in the middle and got stabbed. I’m okay, the asshole who stabbed me is in jail, and it’s _over with_ but it…it doesn’t _feel_ that way.”

“Tucker, it’s completely normal that you’d feel that way—”

“No no, you don’t get it,” Tucker says, frustrated. “It’s like….I feel tense all the time. Like I’m _waiting_ for something to happen. Like I’m in the middle of a _war_ or something, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m gonna get hurt again.”

“Tucker—”

“I haven’t been cooking any food where I need to use a knife,” Tucker blurts. There. He’s said it. He feels like a total loser, but he’s said it. “Like. Meat I gotta cut up and shit. I can’t even fucking hold one without feeling like I’m gonna puke.”

Wash’s face crumples, as if he can feel the same anguish that Tucker does. “Oh, _Tucker_.”

“It’s stupid,” Tucker mutters. “It’s a stupid thing to be afraid of—”

“No, it’s _not,_ ” Wash says firmly. He wraps one of his hands around Tucker’s fingers. “It is _not stupid_ that knives make you nervous. I wish you’d stop calling yourself that.”

“Well, it’s how I feel. _Stupid_. I….I didn’t even know what to do. Like, I saw him coming at me and I just fucking _froze._ I couldn’t…what if something like that happens again, and I can’t protect myself? Or you? Or Junior? I have to be able to protect my _kid_.”

To his surprise, Wash looks almost relieved. “I can help you with _that_ ,” he says eagerly. “If you want. When I was…when I was on the force, I learned some knife self-defense. I could teach you.”

All at once, the anxious knot in Tucker’s stomach seems to loosen. “Holy shit, really? You’d do that?”

“Of course,” Wash says. “I have a couple rubber knives back from my martial arts days. We’ll need some space—I’m sure we could use Carolina and Ness’s basement, it’s huge.”

“That sounds _awesome,_ ” Tucker says gratefully. “Wash, you’re the best.”

It’s much, much easier to fall asleep after that, with Wash tucked up against his side, the knowledge that he has a plan settling his nerves.

* * *

 

As it turns out, knife fighting is not nearly as easy as the movies make it look.

“It’s not _knife fighting_ ,” Wash explains to him for at least the fifth time. “It’s knife _self-defense_. You are learning how to _defend_ against your opponent’s blade, not stand there and fight him."  
“Yeah, but shouldn’t I like….” Tucker gestures with the rubber knife he’s holding. “Shouldn’t I like, try to get the knife away from him and stab him or some shit?”

“No,” Wash says sharply. “You shouldn’t. If you manage to get the knife away from someone trying to hurt you, I want you to run to somewhere with people, and I want you to yell for help—”

Tucker bristles. “I’m not gonna yell for _help_ —”

“And I want you to call the police and then call _me_ —”

“I don’t need you to _protect me_ ,” Tucker snaps. He’s feeling pretty silly now, for the way he’d tried taking on those guys at the bar. It had been laughable, really, how easily they’d been able to toss him around.

 _They wouldn’t have been able to toss Wash around,_ Tucker realizes with a rush of shame. Wash would’ve been able to protect himself and Kai. Wash would’ve taken those fuckers out in two seconds flat. Wash would’ve locked the fire door to the second floor bar the second he heard people coming upstairs instead of freezing. Wash—

—is standing in front of him now, running soothing hands up and down Tucker’s arms—which, he realizes with a rush of shame, are shaking. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Tucker pulls away from him, tossing the rubber knife back. Wash catches it, frowning. “Just—fucking come at me again, okay?”

Wash eyes him suspiciously, but he resets, lunging in with a sharp stab that Tucker is actually able to slap out of the way. He stumbles back, hands up, as Wash begins to circle him slowly. Tucker tracks him with his eyes, the motion sending the hair on the back of his neck straight up. The guy who had stabbed him— _Felix Felix Felix_ —had circled him like that, knife twirling casually in his fingers, eyes sharp and dangerous—

_\--if I’m stronger than you and faster than you then I can beat you—_

He doesn’t realize that Wash has lunged in again until his back hits the wall, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to jar him out of the memory. A strangled gasp rips out of his throat as Wash puts the knife to his neck, and Tucker scrabbles at it frantically.

Wash doesn’t say anything when Tucker rips the knife out of his hand, doesn’t correct him for grabbing it by the blade. He’s silent when Tucker hurls it across the room, when he collapses forward into Wash’s chest, when Tucker chokes back the sob that threatens to tear out of his chest. Wash only holds him tight, one hand between Tucker’s shoulder blades, the other buried in his hair, rocking them both tightly as Tucker shakes. It’s _stupid,_ he’s _fine_ , he should be able to _handle this,_ he shouldn’t be—

He waits until the worst of the shaking has subsided before clearing his throat. “I was stabbed, wasn’t I? Like…in another life?”

His voice is still ragged and hoarse, and he keeps his face pressed tight to Wash’s chest, not trusting himself to look up just yet. “It doesn’t matter, Tucker—”

“Yes it _does_ ,” Tucker says angrily. “I should—it would make _sense,_ then, why I’m being such a little bitch about this—”

“It _wouldn’t_ ,” Wash says firmly, “because you’re _not_ being a little bitch. You have a right to be upset. You were stabbed in a bar. You almost died.”

It isn’t until Wash says it, flat out like that, that it hits him, how _close_ he’d come to losing his life, to losing Junior and Wash, to losing everything. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. I almost died.”

“Yeah,” Wash whispers in his ear, arms squeezing around him tighter still. “Yeah. You did.”

He can’t fight it this time, the sob that forces its way out of him, can’t hide the tears that are soon soaking through Wash’s shirt. He doesn’t know how long they stand there, only that Wash’s don’t loosen around him until Tucker pulls back, blinking rapidly at the floor. Wash tilts his face up, wipes his tears away with the pads of his thumbs, and presses a long kiss to Tucker’s forehead. “Come on. Let’s go pick up Junior and go home. We can train again another day.

 _Home._ Tucker nods, and Wash reaches down to clasp his hand and lead him upstairs. They say good-bye to Carolina and Vanessa, and Tucker feels a rush of affection for them both when they don’t comment on Tucker’s red-rimmed eyes. Carolina just presses a six pack of hard cider into his hand as they leave and pats his shoulder a little awkwardly. “Call me when you want to drink that.”

Junior is talkative and chatty when they pick him up from school, and Wash drives them to the store to pick up snacks and a new movie. They spent the night sprawled out on the couch, until they’re a tangled, sleepy mess, and when Tucker drifts off against Wash’s shoulder, he’s thinking only of his family.

* * *

Tucker wakes up the next morning to the sound of raised voices. He rolls over, disoriented, and squints around his room. Wash is nowhere to be seen, the bedroom door closed tightly. Tucker frowns, making to sit up, worry starting to brew in his chest. “Wa--?”

He almost has a heart attack as a small hand clamps over his mouth, forcing him back to the mattress. Moments later, Junior’s face blooms in his vision, as he makes a shushing motion. Tucker bats his hand away, heart hammering. “Jesus _Christ,_ Junior,” he hisses. “What the—”

“ _Shhhhhhh!_ I’m trying to listen!”

“Listen to what?!”

“To Church and Wash,” Junior whispers enthusiastically. “They’re having a _fight._ ”

Tucker opens his mouth to reassure Junior when he realizes that Junior doesn’t look upset in the slightest. On the contrary, he looks as if he’s having the time of his life. The voices grow louder, and Tucker sits up in bed, looking at the door curiously. “What are they fighting about?”

“I don’t know,” Junior whispers. “They keep saying really weird words, like—like Freelancer, and talking about _pelicans_ , and healing units—

_The healing unit._

Tucker vaults out of bed, pressing his ear to the bedroom door, Junior hot on his heels. He halfheartedly tries to pull Junior away, but Junior squirms out of his grasp and Tucker relents. He doesn’t even know what they’re arguing about. If it gets bad, he’ll cover Junior’s ears or something.

“—so fucking _dramatic_ ,” Church is saying angrily. “Cannot believe you’re still _pissed_ at me like, a million lifetimes later—”

“You don’t know how many lifetimes ago it was!”

“What—you— _that’s not the point!_ The point is you’re still pissy about shit that happened _forever_ ago—”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to be if you owned up to the things you did!”

“Oh, so just because _you’re_ still all hung up on this shit means that everyone else has to be, too? Got news for you, Wash—some of us can like, live in the present, unlike you. Seems like spending time in the crazy house really did wonders.”

Tucker closes his eyes briefly before flicking them to Junior, but Junior’s expression hasn’t changed. “Alright, maybe you shouldn’t be—“

Junior jumps back as Tucker grabs for him again, and they both freeze as Wash speaks. “How…how do you know about that?”

“There’s this little thing called the _internet,_ maybe you’ve heard of it—”

“You… _you looked me up?”_

“Of course I did, I had to make sure my best friend wasn’t dating a _psycho_ —”

“Oh, well,” Wash says, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I’ll bet you couldn’t _wait_ to tell him that he was.”

Church scoffs, falling silent for so long that Tucker thinks the argument might be over. The apartment is silent, the only sound the gurgling of the coffee pot, before Church’s voice comes again. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“ _Excus_ e me?” Wash sputters. “ _You’re_ the one who—”

“Of course I didn’t tell him.”

“You…what?”

Church huffs. There’s the sound of him yanking open cupboards and slamming a coffee mug down—no, two mugs, definitely two mugs—and beginning to pour the coffee. “If you’re a psycho, then what the fuck does that make me?”

Wash is quiet for a long time, and there’s the sounds of him stirring sugar into his coffee before he and Church sit and drink it in silence. “What are they talking about?” Junior whispers, and Tucker shrugs. It’s only half a lie—he could interpret a bit based on what Wash had told him, but Church…

Church had never given him the slightest clue that they’d know each other before, and it makes Tucker wonder just how common remembering past lives was. No one else he knew had ever said anything, but…well, why would they? Did half the population just walk around like this, terrified to mention anything for fear of judgment or being thrown in an asylum just like Wash?

Church’s voice comes again, jolting Tucker out of his thoughts. “You’re still an idiot, though. Hung up on shit that happened forever ago.”

“Oh, _really?_ ”

“Yeah, _really_.”

“So what you’re saying is, I shouldn’t allow things that happened in the past influence my daily decisions.”

“Yeah, _Washington_ , that’s what I’m fucking saying.”

“I see.” A pause. “So, you coming over here every morning has absolutely nothing to do with misplaced guilt about Tucker getting hurt?”

“What—are you serious?! _You’re_ the one who told me it was _my fault!”_

“You know why I said that,” Wash says quietly, “and you know I didn’t mean it, and that I’m _sorry_.”

“This is stupid,” Church snaps. “I don’t—I’m not having this conversation.”

“It sounds to me like you _need_ to have this conversation—”

Tucker’s cell phone alarm blares so suddenly that he gasps and jumps, smacking right into the door in the process. He freezes, hands over his mouth, while Junior glares at him in horror. Church and Wash’s voices stop abruptly, and when Tucker doesn’t move, Junior vaults across the bed, turning Tucker’s alarm off.

 _What do I do?_ he mouths frantically at Junior, who says nothing, just rolls his eyes hugely. Tucker makes a huge production out of pretending to wake up, faking a loud yawn and stomping around his room a bit, throwing open his closet doors and yanking down one of Wash’s hoodies. “Play along,” he hisses at Junior, before stumbling bleary-eyed out of the bedroom.

Church and Wash’s unimpressed glances follow him all the way to the coffee pot. “Man, I’m _tired_ ,” Tucker says, feigning another yawn and draping himself all over Wash. “Why are you guys _up_ so early?”

Church stares at him. “It’s ten o’clock, Tucker.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Another fake yawn. “I’m just so tired.”

Junior groans quietly behind him as Church folds his arms across his chest. “Better question is, who the fuck sets an alarm for _ten o’clock?”_

“We were up late last night,” Tucker says defensively. He twines his arms around Wash’s neck, leaning in for a kiss. “Want some pancakes, gorgeous?”

Wash rolls his eyes, but he does kiss Tucker back, tugging at the sweatshirt. “This is mine.”

“Sure is. Gonna smell like you all day.”

“Gross,” Junior and Church mutter in tandem.

Tucker reluctantly pulls away and sets to work on the pancakes. Breakfast is filled with significant glances, between Tucker and Junior, and Church and Wash, with both groups pretending not to notice the other. “Hey, Wash,” Tucker says brightly when it’s time for them to get dressed, “you mind taking Junior to Keisha’s on your way to work? Gonna hang back with Church for a bit.”

Church freezes mid-text, eyes snapping up to Tucker’s. “You are? Why?”

“What? Can’t a guy spend some quality time with his best friend?”

“No,” Church says immediately. “No, he _can’t_.”

“I wanna stay,” Junior says, eyes darting in between the three of them. “I wanna stay and hang out with Church, too.”

“Yes,” Church says, “yes, good plan. I wanna hang out with Junior instead.”

Tucker grits his teeth. “Junior, you have school.”

“It’s Sunday.”

They glare at each other until Tucker mouths _I’ll tell you later_ when he’s reasonably sure Church and Wash aren’t looking. _You better,_ Junior mouths back, before sighing. “ _Fiiiiiine._ I guess that’s okay.”

Church refuses to meet Tucker’s eyes the entire time that Junior and Wash are getting ready to go out the door—which, between the two of them, takes a good ten minutes. Junior and Wash head out of the apartment, get into the car, and drive away, and Church is _still ignoring him,_ the fucker. Tucker finally reaches over and snatches his phone out of his hand, and Church glances up, indignant. “Hey! Give me that!”

Tucker holds it high out of his reach. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“What was what all about?!”

“That weird as fuck conversation between you and Wash.”

“I _knew_ you were eavesdropping,” Church mutters. He makes another swipe for Tucker’s phone. “Hey, come on.”

Tucker yanks it away. “Is it really eavesdropping if you’re yelling so loud the whole goddamn apartment complex can hear you?”

“Oh, please, we were _not_ that loud—”

“Why do you think it’s your fault that I got stabbed?”

Church freezes immediately, the hand grabbing for Tucker’s phone stretched out in midair. “I….that wasn’t—”

“Because like, it obviously wasn’t. You know I don’t think that, right?”

Church’s arm slowly drifts back down to the breakfast bar, and Tucker reaches out to give it a little shake. “Okay, you’re freaking me out, stop looking at me like that.”

Church stops looking at him then, which is much worse, because the weird, panicked expression on his face only intensifies. “It—I didn’t—if I’d known—”

“Church—” Tucker gives his arm another shake, alarmed. “Dude, what the _fuck?_ ”

“I should go,” Church says abruptly, and Tucker lunges across the bar to grab his arm.

“Are you fucking serious?! That’s exactly what Wash said, too! What is it with you guys and not wanting to tell me shit about what happened in…..you know.” Tucker shrugs. “Past lives.”

When Church doesn’t say anything, Tucker sighs. “I heard you guys. And the two of you have been acting weird for _months_. I’m not an idiot, Church.”

Church wrenches his arm away, but he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t look Tucker in the eye, either. “It _was_ my fault,” he says abruptly. “Both times. That you got hurt.”

“Okay,” Tucker says slowly, when Church fails to elaborate. “I’m not going to ask about last time, because it doesn’t matter—”

Church snorts. “You might not think that if you knew—”

“ _Because it doesn’t matter,”_ Tucker repeats loudly. “But—Church, come on. How the fuck were you supposed to know I was about to get stabbed at work? There was no reason—”

“ _Wash_ knew.”

Tucker freezes. “What?”

“He knew.” Church looks at him then, just for a moment, before returning his gaze to the wall. “I was gonna come over, see if he wanted to go to Lina and Ness’s, since it was hot as balls and I figured he was probably suffering in silence—not that I give a shit, but _you_ do—but he was on his way out, acting weird as fuck. Kept saying you were in trouble, that something was wrong, and I…”

Church’s eyes finally lock onto his and stay there, and for a moment, Tucker could swear he saw something in them: the faintest spark of electric blue behind the deep green. “I tried to stop him.”

All at once, Tucker sees where this is going. “Dude—”

“I made a bad call. If I had just gotten the fuck in the car and driven us over instead of trying to get him to _explain_ , then maybe—”

“Then maybe _you_ would’ve gotten stabbed instead,” Tucker says loudly. “Church, come _on_. I love Wash, but I know how he gets when he’s in full drama mode. I probably would’ve tried to stop him too.”

“Still,” Church mumbles, and Tucker decides he’s had enough of this conversation because Church does _not_ mumble.

He tosses Church’s phone back to him, which Church promptly drops on the floor. “Hey! Watch it!”

“Yeah yeah…” Tucker circles around the breakfast bar and flops on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “So you know how Caboose leaves for that pet sitting conference or whatever next week?”

Church remains standing, looking at him suspiciously. “Yes…”

“Right, so that means Wash and I get to watch Freckles for him.”

“Okay….”

“And _Wash_ has this fantastic idea that we should just bring Freckles here for a week.” Tucker rolls his eyes. “I mean, we’re already gonna be there like, five times a day. How much attention does that dog need?”

“A lot,” Church says. He inches close to the couch, still looking as if he’s ready to flee at any given moment. “He made me do a trial walk yesterday as like, a back-up plan or whatever, and let me tell you, that dog likes to cuddle.”

“Oh _God_ , don’t tell me that….”

“You are in for it,” Church says, his expression turning gleeful, and Tucker throws a pillow at him. Church sputters indignantly, sliding down to sit on the couch next to him and it’s better, this way, talking about their friend’s dog and how Kai was gearing up to ask Keisha on a real date, instead of talking about bleeding out on bar floors and pelicans, beneath blue skies and dingy bar ceilings.

* * *

“And don’t forget that he needs his heart worm pill on November 1st—”

“I know, Caboose, I have it written down right, here, see?”

“And he is very friendly and pulls very hard towards other dogs—”

“Tight grip on the leash, got it—”

“And you have to make sure to dry his paws with the blue towel, not the red one—”

“Okay, okay—wait, why does it matter the color of the towel?”

“Because blue is Freckles’ favorite color, Tucker. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He’s a dog, he can’t have a favorite—you know what, never mind. Continue.”

“And if it storms you have to put on his thunder shirt, which he doesn’t like, but once it is on he will be nice and calm—”

“Uh, what do you _mean_ , he doesn’t like when you put it on?”

“And he gets fed twice a day and—”

“Oh my God, Caboose _, I got it._ It’s fine. Freckles will be _fine_. Stop worrying.”

“I am not worrying,” Caboose says airily. “Because Wash and Junior and Kai will be helping.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Thanks, dude.”

Caboose sniffs, but after a long moment, he thrusts Freckles’ leash into Tucker’s hand. “Tucker, I know you will do just fine on your job interview.”

“Yeah, yeah—wait, _what_ job interview?”

Now it’s Caboose’s turn to roll his eyes, and gesture at Freckles as if that’s supposed to clear anything up. It doesn’t, and Caboose sighs loudly. “Tucker, sometimes you are very stupid.”

Tucker snatches Freckles’ leash away, frowning. “Okay, I don’t _have_ to watch your dog, you know—”

“—because when you are looking for a new job, then the first thing you should do is ask your friend who is starting his awesome and super-fun new business if you can work for him.”

It still takes Tucker another several seconds of glancing in between Caboose and Freckles before it clicks. “Whoa, wait, I do _not_ want to be one of your dog walkers.”

“Of course you don’t,” Caboose says, in that infuriatingly patient voice. “You want to make music. But you never had time to make music while you were working at that stupid bar. Maybe if you walk dogs for a while, you will have time to do music things. Also, money does not grow on trees, Tucker.”

“I know that,” Tucker mutters. He fidgets with Freckles’ leash, unable to meet Caboose’s eyes. “You don’t have to do that. Give me a job.”

“Yes I do,” Caboose says. “And also, I want to, because you and Wash are very sad and very stressed and it’s making me sad. I do not like to be sad, or have sad friends, so.”

Tucker watches as Caboose rummages around in the backseat of his car before pulling out a sweatshirt with a flourish. It’s bright blue, with a cartoon drawing of Freckles and the name CABOOSE’S POOCHES emblazoned on the front. “So. This is for you.”

“Holy shit, Caboose, I am _not_ wearing that.”

Caboose frowns at him dangerously. “Do you want to be a dog walker or not?”

Tucker sighs, glaring at the sweatshirt, but in the end there’s no contest. He grabs the sweatshirt, tugs it over his head, and readjusts his grip on Freckles’ leash. “How do I look?”

Caboose actually presses a hand to his heart. “Oh, _Tucker_ , that’s just. That’s just amazing. I am just. You are going to be _such_ a good dog walker. Not as good as me, but—”

Tucker cuts him off with a brief but fierce one-armed hug before grabbing Freckles bag of toys out of Caboose’s hand and marching back into his apartment, where Freckles is going to spend the afternoon before he takes him home. Caboose pauses him to give Freckles one more kiss on the head, before getting in his car and driving away.

“Don’t ask,” Tucker says wearily to Wash, when Wash’s eyes flick to his sweatshirt. “Just…just don’t even ask.”

* * *

 

Wash describes the memories like a warm bath, one that he enters inch by inch until the water has swallowed him whole. A slow bottle of wine, warming his veins. Fingers of sand, combing through his hair. They come quickly, but take longer to stay, to grab hold, until he can no longer remember life without them.

For Tucker—

For Tucker it is a thunderclap, a freight train, a free fall into cold water below.

He still isn’t entirely sure that the flashes he’d gotten of bleeding out in blue armor were in fact memories, or snippets of a very vivid dream that he’d be happy never having again. He still can’t bring himself to ask Wash about the healing unit, and what it was, or why Church had said it was his fault _last time,_ too. Wash seems to have no doubt that what he himself experiences are memories, and Tucker isn’t sure why he doesn’t have the same certainty, or what it means.

Besides, as he’s told Wash many times, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is Junior falling asleep tucked up against Wash’s side on the couch. What matters is the double date he and Wash had set up with Kai and Keisha, and how happy both of them had looked lately. What matters is the way he’d finally drank his way through that case of cider with Carolina in her basement, after she’d shown him a few knife tricks of her own. What matters is this stupid sweatshirt Caboose had given him, and what it meant, and the time he was going to have to really develop his music.

What matters is Wash, sprinting through the autumn rain with Freckles a dozen yards ahead of them, and the ring that Tucker has tucked away safely in his underwear drawer.

He darts after them, sweatshirt pulled up tightly around his head, the three of them making a beeline for Caboose’s front porch. “Holy shit,” Tucker gasps as he finally joins them under the awning. “Where the fuck did that come from?!”

“Don’t know,” Wash gasps, all breathless and blue-eyed and beautiful in the rain. “Freckles liked it, though.”

Tucker glances at Freckles, who is straining to get back out in the rain. “Glad _he_ did.”

Wash grins, fumbling for Caboose’s house key. “Alright, we have to….dry him off….”

“ _Yeeeeah_ ….” Tucker eyes the sopping wet dog. “Think we’re gonna need more than one towel.”

“It’d probably help if he shook of the rain first,” Wash says absently, still trying to find the correct key while holding Freckles back from the rain.

Tucker takes the leash with him, and promptly finds himself yanked out into Caboose’s fenced-in front yard. He coaxes him back onto the porch, sputtering, planting himself more firmly under the awning this time. “C’mon Freckles, you can’t go in the house like that,” Tucker says, exasperated. “Shake off the water! Go on, shake!”

Freckles does nothing, just wags his tail so fiercely against Tucker’s leg that Tucker’s half-convinced it’s going to leave a bruise. “Shake it off! C’mon, shake off the water!”

Wash gives him a look as he finally locates the correct key. “He doesn’t understand you, Tucker. You have to use short, commanding words.”

“Oh _reallllly?_ You wanna show me how it’s done, mister animal whisperer?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Wash clears his throat and straightens. “Freckles?”

“You’re such a dork,” Tucker grumbles, even as Freckles turns to Wash attentively. “Maybe you should be one of Caboose’s Pooches Dog Walkers.”

Wash gives him a little shove before turning back to Freckles. “Freckles! _Shake._ ” 

A thunderclap a freight train a free fall into cold water below—

 _“Hey,_ no! _What’re you doing?!”_

 _Wash doesn’t answer, just stands there, looking at Tucker, looking right at him as the tunnel crumbles around him. Tucker lunges forward anyway, because Wash is_ not _doing this, is_ not _leaving them, is_ not _sacrificing himself like some big stupid hero—_

_“Tucker, what the fuck!” Grif yells from somewhere behind him, but Tucker keeps pushing forward anyway—_

_The last thing he sees is Wash looking fixedly back at him before his vision goes dark._

Tucker stumbles, leaning back against the wall of the house. Wash puts a steadying hand on his elbow, the grin fading from his face. “Tucker! Are you alright?”

“I—” Tucker shakes his head hard, squinting into Wash’s face. “I—I think I just—”

_—what about the others that’s bullshit I want like a hard drive with base locations and classified shit hey Felix catch—_

Tucker realizes that he’s slid down the wall of the house, Wash crouched in front of him, his hand firm on Tucker’s cheek. “Tucker?”

_“Wash?”_

But he says it differently, Wash’s name trembling out of him in disbelief, in joy, in unmistakable recognition. Wash’s eyes widen, his other hand coming up to cup Tucker’s face as Freckles bounds back into the rain behind them, dashing joyfully around the yard. “You—you remembered something.”

Tucker nods, eyes wide as he runs his own hands over Wash’s face. “Wash,” he whispers again. “Wash, _what the fuck._ ”

 Wash blinks, startled. “Huh?”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me I was such a badass?”

Wash laughs. He throws back his head and _laughs_ , the rain sliding down from his hair into his neck, and Tucker remembers something else now, too: holding Wash’s helmet, while he laughed in the rain, remembers a dirty shower floor and a kiss that tasted like soap. Remembers Wash stumbling into Blue Base, barefoot and shivering and telling him and Caboose that he’d fancied a swim. Remembers a house with blue shudders overlooking a lake, remembers kissing Wash in that lake, and doing a lot more than kissing. Remembers Wash, and the rain.

Remembers _Wash_.

He kisses him here, now, on the front porch of Caboose’s house while Freckles bounds around the yard, and feels something settle inside of him, because, because, _because_ —

Because he _knows_ , now, and because it doesn’t _matter_.

“Marry me,” he blurts, and Wash freezes, eyes flying open wide. “Shit, wait, I don’t have the ring—well, I _have_ it, but it’s back at the house—fuck, and I’m supposed to get down on one knee—I mean, I can get down on both if you want— _bowchickabowwow_ —wait, I’m totally fucking this up, let me start over—”

“Yes,” Wash says, and he lunges in to kiss Tucker so quickly that their teeth bump together and Tucker’s head kind of cracks against the wall of the house. “Oh no—sorry—”

“Which is it?” Tucker gasps, rubbing the back of his head. “Yes or no?”

“Yes _yes_ , of course _yes_ ,” Wash says, giddy in a way Tucker’s rarely seen. “If—if you’re sure?”

“I’m _so_ sure,” Tucker says, the same giddy tone creeping into his own voice, “and so is Junior, I asked him and everything—he’s gonna be _soooo_ pissed he missed the proposal—shit, maybe we can pretend to do it again later? I had a whole thing planned…”

Wash laughs, his hands running soothingly over where Tucker’s head smacked into the brick. “We sure can.”

“I love you,” Tucker says, because it’s important, and that’s what you _said_ when proposing to the love of your life. Lives. Whatever. “ _You_. I love _you_.”

“I love you too,” Wash says, and he kisses Tucker like a thunderclap, like a freight train, like a free fall into cold water below, and when he lands, it feels like coming home.

* * *

 

It’s less like memory and more like a new instinct, the way Wash moves against him later. Things had always been easy and familiar between them, but _this_ …

There’s some new-found intuition that whispers to Tucker that Wash was _probably_ sensitive just above his hipbones, and that it was a _grand_ idea to bite little marks into them. It tells him that Wash would _certainly_ enjoy it if Tucker held his wrists above his head while they kissed, and that he would _definitely_ like it if Tucker tied him to his bed and fucked him senseless.

 _Liked it_ turns out to be a bit of an understatement, and neither of them are able to speak for a good fifteen minutes after. They just lie there, tangled together, breathing heavily, until Tucker rolls over on his stomach and says, “That was payback. For the blowjob.”

Wash blinks at him slowly, eyebrows crinkling in a way that’s so adorable that Tucker wants to jump his bones again. “Huh?”

“You know. The first blowjob you gave me, where you were like, pulling from my card catalogue of kinks.” Tucker winks at him. “Got you back.”

Wash grins, slow and sleepy. “If that’s payback, maybe I should do that sort of thing more often.”

“Fuck yeah, you should,” Tucker says, and then he _does_ jump Wash’s bones and they end up making out until they’re ready for round two.

“Will I remember more things, now?” Tucker asks later. He’s sprawled across Wash’s chest with no intent of ever moving again, and can only sigh in contentment when Wash drops a kiss to the top if his head.

“I don’t know. Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker says slowly. “I mean. It’s not gonna change anything, ya know?”

“Yeah,” Wash says, “I do.”

For the first time, he sounds as if he believes it.

* * *

 

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The woods are dark and deep, and blanketed with fresh falling snow. Tucker finds himself blinking in the middle of a clearing, staring at a well-lit cabin several dozen yards away. There are no footsteps to suggest which direction he came from, or how long he has been standing here, but he is neither cold nor afraid. He is simply waiting, though for what, or for whom, he knows not.

Still he stands there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, watching the shadows move inside the cabin. The distant sound of glasses clinking, and various voices raised in laughter reach his ears. He can pick them out immediately: Sarge’s deep bellow, Caboose’s high pitched chirping, Simmons’ obnoxious snorting. A smile plays across his face as he listens, longing to join them, but he’s not ready just yet.

Tucker doesn’t know how long he waits for, but eventually, he turns his attention from the cabin to peer out into the dark of the woods. There is someone moving towards him, footsteps crunching in the snow, and Tucker feels his heart lift as the new comer emerges, brushing fat flakes from his blond hair and glancing around the clearing with wide blue eyes.

“ _You_ ,” Tucker says deliberately, “are the most dramatic motherfucker, _ever._ Of all time.”

Wash’s gaze snaps to him with eyes no longer lined with wrinkles, walks towards him with a back no longer stooped with age. He’s young again, the same age he was when they first met, and Tucker can feel that he is too. Wash comes to a halt several feet in front of him, arms folded across his chest. “I am not.”

“You _are_.” Tucker lifts an eyebrow. “I mean, weeping at my deathbed? Come on.”

“There was no _weeping_.”

“There was _so much_ weeping.”

Wash huffs again, brushing more snow out of his hair. “Well, alright, fine. I _hate_ it when you go first, you know that.”

“And you think I _like_ it when _you_ do? _Please_. It was totally my turn to peace out first.”

“It was not!” Wash protests. “You definitely went first last time. And the time before that. And the time before _that_.”

“I did—” Tucker thinks. “Wait, what were the last three times again?”

“Hey, lovebirds!” They turn to see Grif leaning out of the cabin door. “Hurry it the fuck up! Everyone’s waiting for you!”

“Give us a sec!” Tucker hollers back. “I didn’t interrupt your post-death reunion, did I?!”

“I’m sure you would have if you were here!” Grif yells, and slams the door.

Tucker rolls his eyes, turning back to Wash. “Okay, I’m not saying he’s _wrong_ —”

But Wash has closed the gap between them when he wasn’t looking, and Tucker finds himself breathless, still, as their chests press together. “Hi,” he says, as Wash tips his head back.

“Hi,” he says, and then he leans down to kiss Tucker and it’s everything; it’s their last kiss in Tucker’s hospital room and the kiss on his living room couch and the kiss on the beach where they got married. It’s other kisses, too, from other lives—kisses in armor, kisses on kitchen tables, kisses against fences, and it’s all the lifetimes without kisses, too.

The world is quiet when they break apart, and Wash’s hand drifts down Tucker’s arm to squeeze his fingers. “I missed you.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, and he grins. “I missed your dramatic ass, too.”

Wash rolls his eyes, kissing Tucker’s forehead. “Glad to hear it.”

They’re quiet for a few moments before Tucker pulls back to look at him. “Is Junior okay?”

“He’ll be fine.” Wash smiles. “We’ve got a long time before he joins us.”

“Good,” Tucker says, relief warming his veins. “That’s good.”

Wash gestures towards the cabin. “Shall we wait for him inside?”

Tucker pretends to make a face. “Guess we shouldn’t keep our friends waiting _too_ long.”

“Yeah, well. We always do.”

They do.

Tucker takes Wash’s hand, and together, they step into the warmth of the cabin.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are at the end. apologies for the delay - this chapter needed so time in order for me to get it juuuust right, and i'm so glad didn't rush it. 
> 
> thank you as always to [melissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax), both for being my beta and for the incredible art she did for this fic. a big thanks also to the mods (and my dear friends) over at [rvbficwars](http://rvbficwars.tumblr.com/), for working so hard to put together the big bang. and of course, thank YOU so, so much for reading. :) 
> 
> (ps. several of you have expressed interest in reading my original content should i someday publish. we're a long, long ways away from that day, but i have started a silly little blog to kind of track my progress and talk about the journey. if you're interested, you can check that out [HERE](http://saltsanford.com). only one entry up so far [should have another in a few days] but just thought i'd put it out there!)


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